Jade Green Days Revisited (Solo)

[Gilbert]

For those who remember such things: this is an old story of mine that was born here on Althanas, but has taken on a further life of its own through rewrites, additions, etc. Hope you all enjoy the new version.

It began, as things ever so often do, with a chance meeting at the right time.

Gilbert was walking down the rough-hewn wooden stairs, away from the muddy main street of Tikka's Landing, and down towards the stone jetties where the fisherfolk plied their trade. The odour of fish guts mixed with the salt-smell of the sea, but a strong wind off the water prevented the smells from becoming truly noxious.

It was late afternoon, and soon the small fleet of fishing boats would be back with their second catch of the day. The fishwives would be out shortly with their gutting-knives, to work swiftly at the great long tables where mackerel, herring, and the occasional huge tuna would be piled, but for now the women sat and mended nets, chatting and laughing, picking deftly at the tangled strands lying across their laps.

Gilbert rested his bulk upon a low stone wall and took his ease. he rested his long-hafted battle-axe, the tool of his trade, across his knees and let his gaze wander. He had just finished three weeks of duty as a caravan guard, helping to see a diverse load of pots, pans, cloth (mostly wool) and other sundries to the small town of Tikka's landing, a regular run that a trading company out of Ostovo made every six months.

[Gilbert]

Gilbert's pay rested snugly in the purse on his belt; although doubtless the first coins would be spent on food, drink, and a bed to sleep in for the first time a nearly a month, for the moment Gilbert was content to feel their weight in his purse, a physical manifestation of the fruits of his labour.

He shifted slightly, letting more of his weight rest upon the smooth stones of the wall, feeling the afternoon sun warm his large frame. Spring was well along, and he would have to give thought to shearing his hair and his great brown gorse-bush of a beard before the summer heat made such things unbearable. Much sooner than that, of course, he would need to find more work, but that search could lay by for a day or three. A night or two with a roof over his head would certainly do him no hurt, Gilbert decided.

The warmth of the sun in his bones, and the feel of the fresh wind on his face, were starting to lead Gilbert into a drowse, when a sudden sharp increase in the volume of chatter from the fishwives caught his attention.

He straightened and looked up, and the reason for commotion was plain to see. Tikka's landing was a natural harbour, nestling at the bottom of a V-shaped indentation of coastline. Turning into the harbour, some 800 yards away, was a warship.

[Gilbert]

Gilbert stood swiftly and gripped his axe tightly in his hands, but then relaxed. His first thought was that the Landing was being raided, but then he saw the pennon of Prince Castamir, lord and sovereign of the land, flying from the mainmast. The ship's warboards were down, and the crew, clearly visible, gave no sign of hostile intent.

Nevertheless, Gilbert climbed the rough-cut timber steps back up to the main street. Friendly signs or no, he had no intention of being caught at the jetties should things go amiss. These were uncertain times.

Reaching the higher elevation of the main street, Gilbert turned, thrust the butt-end of his battle-axe into the dirt, and rested his arms on the axe's broad head. The warship was a snaekkje, painted black from stem to stern, a shallow-drafted vessel fit for coastline or river, sporting some thirty oars by Gilbert's quick reckoning. She was sleek, a fast runner that swiftly ate up the distance to the jetties. Already the shipmaster had ordered the oars to be raised, and the snaekkje was coasting smoothly, following a straight line to the longest jetty in the harbour. The jade green water swelled and rippled away smoothly before the ship's sharp black bow, and the vessel dropped more and more speed by the simple inertia of its passage. As it reached the jetty, the snaekkje was at a bare crawl.

Neatly done, thought Gilbert. No stranger to the sea, he had seen many pilots and shipmasters attempt this simple-seeming maneuver, but very few as well as the shipmaster of this black coast-hugger. Already, the docking lines were being tossed onto the jetty, and some of the few menfolk who were not out with the fishing fleet made the lines fast against the heavy metal cleats that lined the main jetty.

Gilbert hefted his axe and turned away. If he wished fresh food and drink, best he get it now, he thought, before the ship finishes docking and twoscore thirsty sailors are clamouring for ale.

[Gilbert]

It hadn't taken a genius to predict the nature of the company at Tikka's Rest, the Landing's sole inn, that evening. Gilbert only just managed to polish off some stewed mackerel and some potatoes fresh from the inn's own garden when the first of the warship's crew began spilling into the tiny inn. It wasn't long before everyone knew that the ship was the Trakai, a snaekkje out of Goland, heading north on business for Castamir. They were a friendly enough lot, given to the sort of rough jests and clowning that one would expect for a group of mostly young men who had been shipbound for a time. More than one jack of ale slopped over onto a table, and more than one man stumbled (or was pushed by a comrade) and landed on his backside in the sawdust.

Gilbert was a little overwhelmed by the sheer press of bodies in the Rest, especially after the relative solitude of his scouting and escort duties through the forest from Ostovo. Although he had originally intended to sleep the night in the common room of the inn, the arrival of the Trakai had put that idea to rest. He had already decided to part with a little more of his hard-earned coin in order to have a bed to himself, with a door to shut out the rest of the world.

Gilbert had just gotten up to make his way up the stairs, draining the last of the ale from his jack, when there was a tug on his sleeve. He turned in mild surprise, uncertain what to expect, and found himself looking into the face of one of the sailors.

"My shipmaster would like a word with you, if you don't mind, sir," the fellow said.

[Gilbert]

Gilbert followed the shipman, who gestured silently at the door. Gilbert stepped outside, and took a moment to breathe in air that was free of woodsmoke and pipesmoke, burnt stew and ale. The sun had set while Gilbert had taken his meal and sat with the company of the Tikka's Rest, and it was twilight. A few stars were visible in the deepening blue sky, and the crickets had begun their evening song.

The sailor pointed to a group of men gathered round a small bonfire, down by the water to the north of the jetties, where the land sloped down to form a beach of sorts. "Just down there, sir," said the sailor. "Thank you," said Gilbert. The shipman nodded and stepped back inside the Tikka's Rest to join his comrades.

It was that time of evening when all the senses seem sharper, and every sound amplified: the rise and fall of talk and laughter from the inn, the dirt scraping under Gilbert's feet as he walked towards the beach, the snapping of sparks from the driftwood bonfire below, and beneath all of it, the gentle lapping of the sea against the shore.

As Gilbert approached the gathering by the bonfire, he could make out the shapes of four men, and the sounds of their low conversation beneath the crackling of the fire. The light of the blaze ruined any chance of night vision, so Gilbert had to step quite close to make out any of the men, and they turned as he approached.

One of them slapped his thigh and laughed as Gilbert stepped into the light of the bonfire. "Damme, foresters are a shaggy lot, but I knew there was only one as shaggy as you! Gilbert, ye bastard!"

Gilbert smiled in recognition. Here was an old friend. "Rugen."

[Gilbert]

"Well met," said Gilbert as he stepped towards his old friend. The shipmaster stood up, and the two of them clasped forearms and smacked each others' shoulders. Gilbert chuckled in genuine pleasure. "Well met, Rugen, you bloody sea rat."

Rugen was a stocky fellow like his friend, but a bit taller and less broad across the shoulder. The shipmaster's hair was blond, pale to a near whiteness, bleached out by the salt and the sea. His face was deeply tanned, contrasting sharply with his thinning hair, and a wisp of a beard grew round his mouth. "Sit down, man," he said to Gilbert. "Grab a stump."

Gilbert shifted a block of wood nearer the fire and rested his bulk on it, nodding to the others who sat there. "Gilbert, that fellah there is Iestyn, an old friend of mine from the Landing." An elderly fisherman tilited his head towards Gilbert. "This is Jonas, who up until tonight was the Trakai's warmaster," - Rugen gestured at a burly redheaded fellow in a linen shirt and with a wide leather baldric - "and this bugger is Lankin, who's just brought me a load of bother." The last member of the group, a slightly built man in black with a finely trimmed goatee, smiled and shook his head ruefully.

"And this, gentlemen, and I do use that term bloody loosely," said Rugen, "is Gilbert, the fellah I was telling you about. He might be the answer to our problems, Colm willing."

Gilbert sat up a little straighter. "Easy now, Ru," he said. "I'm not sure I like being talked about, and I'm damned leery about being anyone's answer to anything."

Iestyn laughed and handed Gilbert a darkened glass bottle. "Wise man. Have a drink."

[Gilbert]

Gilbert took the proffered bottle, but his expression was still grim. Rugen laughed. "By the blessed saint, Gil! You look like a man on his way to his best friend's funeral. It's nothing as bad as that."

Gilbert took a swig of the bottle - applejack, local brew - and passed it on to Jonas. He nodded for Rugen to continue.

"Right then," said Rugen. "Well, I've signed on as master of the Trakai in the service of Prince Castamir. Jonas here - " he pointed to the fiery-headed man - "is one of Castamir's warmasters, assigned to the same vessel. But when we came ashore here at the Landing, who do I find waiting for me but this bugger?" He gestured at Lankin, who gave a crooked grin. Rugen took a swig from the bottle and passed it on. "Lankin's a herald for the Prince, sent to meet me here. Seems the Prince needs the flame-head for some higher duty. Can't think why, he's a lazy sod." All the men round the fire laughed, Jonas the loudest.

"So here I am, with a bunch of sodding marines, and nary a man to mind them, let alone drill the sodding crew, most of whom are as fresh as newborn kittens," grumbled Rugen. Iestyn chuckled as he tipped the bottle. "Which brings me" - Rugen grinned evilly - "to you, Gilbert."

"Aye, well." Of course, Gilbert had already seen which way the wind was blowing, as Rugen had meant him to, and had been considering his choices as Rugen wound up. "Job?"

"Sail up the coast to Skaggerak, to join with three other ships and take care of a local pirate," replied Rugen.

"Duties?" Gilbert gave the bottle a greeting and sent it on its way.

"Warmaster of the vessel, with full rights and responsibilities."

"Pay?"

"Guild regular, plus a commander's share in any prize."

"Bonus for pulling a friend's arse out of the proverbial?"

Rugen laughed. "You get to keep the bottle."

Gilbert eyed the bottle sourly, which had come round to him again. It was much the lighter for its travels. He tilted it back and drained it. "Done, you thieving bastard. But starting tomorrow. I want one bloody night with a roof over my head before I'm off again."

Rugen squinted at Gilbert. "That's not the lightfoot I remember. You must be getting old."

"Piss off." Gilbert tossed the bottle softly, in the direction of Rugen's head. "I'll see you in the morning, you drunken sot." Gilbert stood, a trifle less steady for his negotiations. "Well met, the rest of you."

"Well met," came the replies, none too steady either, to tell the truth.

"G'night," said Gilbert to the air in general, and made his way to his promised bed.

[Gilbert]

Gilbert walked down the main jetty, smiling up at the sky. “Damn me, but it’s a beautiful day,” he said to himself. The sky was the purest of blue, the gulls were crying, and he felt the warmth of the rising sun on his bulky frame. He made his way to the end of the jetty, where his ship lay. “Hello the Trakai!” he called.

The Trakai was a snaekkje, forty oars, fully seaworthy in the open water. Painted warboards were hung along the sides of the ship. “Good morning, Gilbert!” boomed the shipmaster. “Get your arse on board, you lazy bollocks! I want to be off with the morning’s tide, and the sun’s on the rise.”

“Keep your shirt on, Rugen,” Gilbert called back amiably. “I’m not the last of the water-rats you need, you grouchy bastard.”

Gilbert stepped nimbly onto a thick mooring rope and stepped quickly across to the ship, jumping down onto the deck. Rugen winced at the sound. “Careful, bigod! We’ve not even cast off yet, there’s not need for you stove a hole in my ship, you great bloody whale.”

Gilbert made a rude gesture at the captain, and walked the length of the narrow upper deck that ran through the middle of the ship from bow to stern, surveying the Trakai. Although he had sailed with Rugen before, he had not sailed on Rugen’s new command. She was a beauty; sleek, painted black, with a wide beam and a sturdy mast. The oars had also been painted black, and the space amidships had been packed with stores. Salted fish, water-barrels, and a fair store of arrows were all immediately apparent to Gilbert’s practiced eye. Some of the crew were already aboard, and Gilbert nodded to a few men he had sailed with before. “By St. Colm, they grow them big in Gotland,” he muttered under his breath. Gilbert himself was not a small man, and these fellows were his equal or better in size.

[Gilbert]

Within the hour, the Trakai had its full crew. Gilbert kept a close eye on the arrivals, and he was guardedly pleased. They seemed a businesslike bunch, not given overly to talking back and forth, but not moody and sullen either. And then there were the five who were his particular responsibility…

“Well, warmaster,” said Rugen, clapping Gilbert in the shoulder, “what do you think of your lot?”

Gilbert turned to Rugen. “Aye, I mind them.” His five marines were of much the same cast as the rest of the crew. Big buggers, silent but not sulking. They were armed as Gilbert had instructed: shield and spear, axe and bow. “We’ll see how they go. I’ll take my measure of them on the way to Skaggerak.”

“Is all to your satisfaction, warmaster?” asked Rugen, formally.

“Aye, shipmaster,” responded Gilbert. “Eighty arrows for every marine, twenty arrows for every oarsman. Fifteen extra bowstaves, thirty extra bowstrings. Twenty extra spears, an axe and dagger on the belt of every oarsman. Warboards secure. Is all to your satisfaction, shipmaster?”

“Aye,” responded Rugen. “One extra sail, five needles and sail-thread, ten extra oars, foredeck and reardeck secure, salted fish and biscuits for all crew for sixty days, water for thirty days. Launch moored to the rear, keel caulked after the last voyage, and she’s as sleek as a shark.” Rugen grinned. “The Trakai is ready to hunt.” He turned to the crew, ready at their oars. “Are you ready, boys?”

“Aye!” came the chorus from two-score throats.

“Cast off!” called Rugen. “Unfurl the sail, port oars push off! Carefully, you bastards!”

The black longship slid smoothly from the jetty, gently moving into open water. Gilbert stepped lightly from the upper deck to the gunwales, looking over the side and breathing in the sea. He heard the crack as the wind filled the snaekkje’s single sail, and felt the Trakai pick up speed.

Gilbert sighed with satisfaction. "Underway," he said to himself.

[Gilbert]

These were the times that Gilbert loved best, the times he knew he would carry in his memory forever: the jade green days, where rock and pine climbed out of the deep green water to form island upon island, some so small that four seagulls was one too many, some large enough to hold a single dwelling in comfort, some stretching back into the mist, filling the dark corners and shadows of the early evening.

There was beauty here, but it was a terrible, stark beauty: a man could not live an hour in these cold waters, and the rocks would take you and crush you if you came too close. It was beauty without compromise – that of Nature, not of man.

Rugen manoeuvred the Trakai through these waters with ease. The shipmaster had sailed these waters since boyhood, and knew where a break in the surface signalled dangerous rocks, and where it was simply a fallen tree-trunk, adrift in the sea. The snaekkje was made for these waters – a longship with a shallow draft, she slipped through the gaps and passages like an otter. Out of sight of the coast, the Trakai would have been in trouble indeed, but these were her waters.

Gilbert leaned over the gunwales, listening to the slap of the water against the ship’s hull. They were close enough to some of the islands that he could smell the scent of pine needles. Two gray seals had been following the Trakai for almost an hour, and he smiled at them as they bobbed up near the side of the vessel. They knew he was watching, and they had been putting on something of a swimming display for his benefit. He gave them a surreptitious wave, and then turned back to the upper deck to inspect his marines.

He had come to know them better over the past few days, although he did not yet have a full sense of them. Bran and Owen, good archers both, although hunters who had little experience of sea-war; Weyland, who followed orders well enough but didn’t do anything until you told him to; Carl, who was an idiot; and Sigurd, a mountain of a man who (if Gilbert was any judge) noticed a lot more than he let on. Sigurd was no archer, and Gilbert was unhappy about this, but he had given up on the idea of training Sigurd with a bow after the huge man broke two of them.

“Okay lads,” said Gilbert, “formation drill.” He increased the volume of his voice. “Repel boarders to port! On my mark, you have a count of ten. NOW!”

“Shields up! Spears up!” Swiftly the five men brought their shields together to form a wall, cross-hafted spears poking through the gaps. …three…four…ran through the back of Gilbert’s mind.
“Advance and THRUST!” The five men, still in formation, moved swiftly to the gunwales and all thrust their spears forward in time. …eight…nine…
“Hold! Spears up.” The five men stood at attention, the butts of their spears resting on the deck and the heads pointing towards the sky.

Not bad, thought Gilbert. Aloud, he said, “Carl, keep your shield square when you thrust, or you open your whole body to attack!” Carl looked owlishly at him. “Keep that shield square, dammit, or I’ll use my axe to show you what I mean!” Gilbert ignored the chuckles from the oarsmen below him. “Bran and Owen, give Sigurd more space or he’ll knock you over the side! Return to your starting positions and be ready on my mark!” Gilbert’s eyes gleamed as he surveyed his men, tensed to spring. “Repel boarders to starboard, NOW!” Sigurd, Weyland, and (surprisingly) Carl pivoted, but Bran and Owen were caught wrong-footed for a moment.

“One of you just died!” shouted Gilbert, his eyes blazing. “I’m not losing you bastards to any pirate scum, so if anyone goes, it’ll be ‘cause I’VE GONE AND TOPPED YOU MESELF!” More chuckles from below, but thankfully the marines could not hear them. “On the ready line,” said Gilbert in a lower tone; having revved his men up, he did not want to embarrass them (too far) in front of the sailors.

[Gilbert]

The Trakai lay up in a small cove late that afternoon, close enough to shore that the crew rowed the launch to the cove’s little beach. Gilbert took to the woods, and was lucky enough to bag a wild pig within an hour. Gilbert smiled as he hauled the heavy carcass over the rocky slopes. “This will spice things up a bit, no doubt,” he said to himself.

Gilbert was right – he got a roar of approval from sailors and marines when he hit the beach with the beast over his shoulders. “This’ll go a treat, lads!” he said as he slung his kill to the ground. “Have you got a firepit ready?”

Rugen chuckled. “You’re still more luck than skill, you hairy beastie,” he said affectionately to Gilbert. “I think you must be half pig yourself.”

Gilbert grabbed the pig’s legs and swung him up again. “We’ll then I’ll just be off to commune with my brother by myself then, shall I?” The crew laughed, and Gilbert shook his head, throwing the carcass at Rugen’s feet. “Time for you to do some work for a change. For the sake of St. Colm, get a firepit ready!”

“I’ll do more than that, bigod,’ replied Rugen. “Tonight’s a good night for whiskey, methinks.”

If Gilbert had thought his arrival had brought a roar, it was nothing compared to the response this news brought from the crew. He and Rugen stood there smiling at each other. “Good times, ye bastard,” said Rugen.

Gilbert nodded. “Aye, good times.”

The next day came, as the next day always does. The crew were up just before dawn, at Rugen’s very vocal urging. “He’s not human, that man,” Gilbert heard one of the sailors mutter. By the time the sun was over the horizon, the sail was up and the oars were out. There was a heavy swell, and Gilbert decided to forgo any further drills for the day, as he feared an injury.

“If this wind holds,” said Rugen, “we’ll be in Skaggerak before midday.” Gilbert nodded. Last night had been a good break from routine, but he wanted to see the disposition of the other forces that were at the port town already.

“Did Castamir’s envoy give you an idea of how many of us there will be?” Gilbert asked.

“Aye,” replied Rugen. “Two snaekkjes out of Skaggerak itself, and a drakkar from Castamir. One of the Dragons.

Gilbert whistled, his eyebrows raised. “Castamir must want these pirates’ heads on pigpoles.”

Rugen nodded. “Well, they’ve hit Skaggerak’s fishing fleets for two seasons running. That’s a lot of tax revenue for the Prince to kiss goodbye.” Rugen paused to call a direction to the tiller-man, and then turned back to Gilbert. “They’ll be tough buggers to catch, as well. Crews are all local boys, commanded by Harald’s own brother.”

Gilbert shook his head ruefully. Harald Fair-hair was the lord of Skaggerak, and had ruled the town and surrounding territory for over twenty years. Harald’s brother Ulrik had broken with the lord of Skaggerak some five years ago, in a fierce dispute over fishing rights that Prince Castamir had been unable to resolve. Ulrik, who earned the name Oathbreaker over the incident, had taken two ships and crews loyal to him and gone rogue, raiding the shipping throughout the islands.

It appeared that the prodigal brother had come home with a vengeance.

"How many ships does Ulrik have?" asked Gilbert, sitting down against the mast and pulling out a whetstone from his belt pouch.

"Still the two, by all accounts, but they're tough buggers." Rugen remained standing, his eyes on the channel which the Trakai was about to enter. "The Hugin and the Munin. Same crews he left Skaggerak with, give or take a few bodies."

Gilbert nodded, running the whetstone along the length of his axe's blade. "I heard of them a few years back, down around Whale Rock." He looked down the length of the blade for spottings of rust, and was pleased to find none. "Sharp bunch."

[Gilbert]

By midmorning, they began to pass the first of Skaggerak’s watchtowers, a timber construction atop a spur of rock that ran almost straight down into the water. Rugen got Sigurd to wave the banner of Castamir, and they saw the blue-gold banner similarly waved by the men of the tower. A minute or so later, the tower was sending up signals of white smoke.

Rugen grunted. “Bloody efficient, these… Skaggerakians.” He scratched his beard. “Skaggerakites?”

Gilbert laughed. “You can stop waving, Sigurd.” The huge man stopped. “So how much longer, shipmaster?”

“Perhaps an hour, warmaster,” Rugen responded. “At least, as long as this wind continues fair.”

The wind did not hold, but it was still less than two hours before the Trakai came in sight of the outlying dwellings and structures of Skaggerak. But that was not what held their attention. Everyone’s eyes were focussed on the massive vessel floating in the distant harbour.

“By the black wains of Olaf…” said Carl, standing behind Gilbert.

Rugen whistled. “Castamir’s sent the Red Dragon.”

It was a magnificent ship, perhaps twelve or fifteen feet higher above the waterline than the Trakai, painted from stem to stern in a deep blood red. The port side was facing them, and both Rugen and Gilbert were silently counting oars. Rugen got there first. “Thirty-five. Bloody hell, that monster ships seventy oars!” He turned to Gilbert. “Let’s take a look at her decks.”

The two men climbed the mainmast of the Trakai, until they were hanging on the swaying mast some thirty meters above the vessel. Both Rugen and Gilbert scanned the distant ship carefully. “Bloody great warboards make it hard to see,” said Gilbert.

“Aye,” said Rugen. “Raised foredeck and reardeck. Looks like… yes, a ballista mounted on the foredeck.”

“Something on the reardeck as well,” said Gilbert, squinting to reduce the glare off the water. “Not a ballista, though. No, it’s a petrary, by the look of it.”

“Hmph.” Rugen frowned. “Rocks from that thing would be too small to dent a ship.”

“Firestones, maybe?” asked Gilbert. “Or perhaps smaller rocks to clear the decks of an enemy ship.”

Rugen nodded. “Aye, could be, could be. By the look of it, most of the crew is ashore.”

Gilbert began to climb back down, and Rugen followed him. The shipmaster clapped Gilbert on the shoulder. “Well, it looks like we’ll be playing poor country cousins on this hunt.” Rugen called out in a much louder voice, “Smooth strokes and strong, lads! We’ve a whole town watching us come to port!”

[Gilbert]

Lord Harald Fair-Hair laid on a mighty feast in his hall. Gilbert and Rugen sat at the head table, and had an ample view of the proceedings. Many of Harald’s fyrdmen and kinsmen had turned out to welcome the officers of the Trakai, and both Gilbert and Rugen had also been introduced to Carloman and Danask, the captain and warmaster of the Red Dragon. They were both tall men, black-haired, with hard countenances. Probably Castamir’s kin, looking like that, Gilbert thought. They kept themselves at a deliberate distance, as befitted officers of the Prince. Or maybe they’re just pompous asses.

Gilbert raised his jack to have it filled by a thrall, and drank deeply of Lord Harald’s ale. Not bad at all. He tore off a chunk of bread, wiping the beef-juice from his plate and popping it into his mouth. It had been a long time since he had enjoyed good cattle-flesh, and like any wise soldier, he took advantage of what opportunities came his way.

Lord Harald’s chief adviser, an enormous, sharp-eyed man named Thialfi, turned to Rugen. “How do you think the weather will break, shipmaster?”
Rugen set his cup down. “The weather looked seeming well to me; I saw no cloud on the horizon when we were in open waters. Nevertheless, these are your waters, master chamberlain, and doubtless you know them best.”

There was a burst of laughter from Harald and his men sitting at the head table. “Wise man he may be, but do not look to Thialfi for counsel on nautical matters,” said Harald, chuckling. “A more capable manager I have never met, but…”

The broad, bearded chamberlain shared in the general mirth. “Keep me off the deck of a ship, for the love of St. Colm!” he laughed, waving his hands. “I know the price of a fish, but I’ve no need to visit him in his home.”

Gilbert laughed, but also kept half an eye on Castamir’s officers. They sat with stiff spines and square shoulders, their faces carefully neutral. They’re not comfortable here at all, thought Gilbert. Is there something about the relations between Castamir and his lord of Skaggerak that I should know?

Just then the doors of the great hall opened for a new arrival, and all other thoughts and speculations were driven from Gilbert’s mind.

Later, he heard from Rugen that her name was Gwennath. At the time, Rugen could have told him that her name was Milton Marlinspike, and he wouldn’t have paid any attention.

She was a vision, an absolute vision. Tall and willowy, with a quiet presence that commanded attention, she moved into the hall. “Great maker,” breathed Gilbert, unaware that he had said this aloud. She was unlike anyone whom Gilbert had ever seen.

Gwennath walked smoothly to the head table, smiling at the men as they stood and waited for her. Gilbert’s heart started to race as she walked closer to him, taking a seat only two away from Gilbert himself. Carloman courteously pulled out the chair for her, and she smiled and took her seat. There was a general rustle as the company took their seats again.

Gilbert tried not to stare, but found himself glancing at her again and again. Her hair was a pale blonde, almost white. Her face looked as if it was carved from ice, pale skin over fine, elfin features. Gilbert followed the line of her neck, unconsciously tracing her shoulders…

Gwennath turned and caught his gaze, her icewater blue eyes appraising, with a hint of amusement. Gilbert turned a deep shade of red and looked down, but a moment later lifted his eyes to return her gaze, his own expression clearly measuring her in turn. A slight smile, mischievous, lifted the corners of his mouth. She did not look away. Gilbert felt his pulse quicken. He noticed a slight flush appear beneath her high cheekbones.
Suddenly everyone was standing. Gilbert stood hurriedly. Harald Fair-hair was lifting his cup. “To the commanders and crew of the Trakai! Welcome! Wass hail!”

The company lifted their cups and jacks. “Wass hail!” Rugen and Gilbert received their salutes, and drained their jacks. Everyone sat. Gilbert, his body humming with the tension of the previous moment, did not dare to look at Gwennath, but somehow found himself glancing at her anyway. She was glancing at him as well, but looked away hurriedly.

It was at this point that Gilbert realized that, somewhere in the last five minutes, he had completely lost his heart.

[Gilbert]

Two days later found Gilbert walking with Gwennath on a hillside above Skaggerak. The wind blew through the grass, whipping up Gilbert’s cloak behind him and blowing Gwennath’s hair about her head. She was clad in green velvet with gold brocade, a simple gown bound at the waist with an embroidered belt. She moved smoothly across the face of the hill, a smile upon her pale lips, gazing mostly at the ground. Gilbert walked beside her, moving at a gentle, easy pace, taking in the landscape around him, taking in the town and seaside below, taking in the beautiful woman at his side. He didn’t want to say a word to disturb the moment, so he said nothing. He was lost in a mental tangle, but he wouldn’t have traded his place with any man in the world.

“So you sail in three days time,” said Gwennath. It was difficult to tell if this was a statement or a question.

“Aye, Gwennath. We all do. The Trakai, the Red Dragon, the Freya, and your brothers on the Belgard. It had turned out that Gwennath was a member of the extended family of Harald Fair-hair; her mother was cousin to Harald by marriage. Gwennath’s brothers, Jasper and Henrik, were both young men of substantial ability who had risen to the posts of shipmaster and warmaster, respectively.

They continued to walk. “Did you know Ulrik at all?” asked Gilbert as they strolled. It was perhaps an impolitic question, but Gilbert had been wondering about the nature of the man whom they were soon to hunt.

Gwennath smiled. To Gilbert, it was like watching the sun rise. “Not really very well. He seemed a big man, almost larger than life. He laughed a great deal.” She sighed. “The hall was a happier place then, I think.”

“The families of the powerful are not like other families,” said Gilbert, “as much as they might wish to be. My brother was a bit of a turf-brain, but I never had to worry about him poisoning my broth to make himself Lord of the Isles, or some such thing.”

Gwennath laughed. She stopped, and looked at Gilbert. “Why did you leave your family?” she asked.

Gilbert smiled ruefully, and shrugged. “There was no life for me there. My father is a farmer, and a good man. My brother is a fisherman, and an idiot, but a good man. I like to believe that I am a good man, but I had no wish for these futures. Nor did I wish to be a smith, or a crofter, or a cooper, and any other such thing. So what was I to do?” He lifted his hands. “I want to see the world, and I’m not done lookin’ yet. I miss my kin, sometimes, but I know where they are. They think I’m mad, but there’s a spot for me by the fire should I return.” He shrugged his shoulders. “And that’s the way of it.”

Gwennath smiled at Gilbert. “I agree with you on one thing, Gilbert of Orkney,” she said. “I believe you’re a good man, too.” She stood on her toes and gave him a kiss on the cheek, swift and sweet. She laughed and took his hand. “Now take me back to town, before the old folk talk even more than they are already.”

[Gilbert]

Rugen grinned as Gilbert came aboard. “Ah, it’s good to find a safe harbour, milad.” The tall captain clapped Gilbert on the shoulder. Gilbert smiled ruefully, and shook his head. “It’s not like that, Ru. We haven’t, for one thing. And there’s not exactly an understanding between us, not… exactly. It’s just…well…”

Rugen, his hand still on Gilbert’s broad shoulder, looked closely at Gilbert. “Save me, Gilbert,” he said at length. “You’re done.” Gilbert turned a deep shade of red. “It’s true,” Gilbert admitted, raising his eyebrows. “I’m lost, my friend. Just lost.”

The shipmaster’s smile broadened. “You poor bugger.” He chuckled. “St. Colm help you. She’s a bonny wee lass, and a fair catch, if it comes to that.”

Gilbert nodded. “Aye, she would be a fair catch indeed. But I’ve no idea what happens now…”

Their leavetaking had been painful, awkward. They had sat in a corner of Lord Harald’s hall, across a table from each other. Their eyes rarely left from gazing at the ground.

“I’m sorry I have to go,” Gilbert said, and he truly meant it. He had a duty to perform, and he had given his word to see it through, but he wished that his duty was a little further off.

“I know you’re sorry, Gil. Just as I know that you must do this. It’s only…” she looked up, clasping his hand. “Well… just be careful, that’s all.” She looked up at him. “Don’t do anything foolish.”

There was something more on the tip of her tongue, Gilbert could tell; but she was not saying it. He was not one to push – let her say what was on her mind when it was right for her. Nothing blooms before its time.

“I’ll be careful, Gwen. I’ll do what needs be, but I’m too fond of this skin to wish to lose it for no damn good reason.”

Gwennath’s face was like a statue. “I’m glad, Gil.”

“Oh, Gwen.” He squeezed her hand. She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. He felt her press against him, and then felt her slip away, like a wave drawing back from the shore. When he opened his eyes, he saw her walking away rapidly, her back straight and her shoulders square. Gilbert clenched his fists and stood. He felt something in his left hand, and opened it up to see.

Gwennath had pressed a small brooch into his hand as she left. A golden love-knot, with an emerald at its heart.

“Gentlemen!” Harald Fair-hair’s voice boomed across the harbour, and brought Gilbert back to himself. The lord of Skaggerak stood at the end of the central quay, a great fur mantle draped over his shoulders. “Good hunting! The blessings of my lord Castamir and my own house go with you.” Harald raised his arm. “A pair of golden arm-bands to the man who brings me Ulrik’s head. Wass hail!”

“Wass hail!” came the answering cry from more than two hundred throats. The drums of the oarmasters began to sound, as the fleet loosed their slips and cast off, out of the harbour and down the coast.

[Gilbert]

Within the week, they had reached the great eel-yards off King’s Head. Row upon row of fencing stretched out from the headland into the ocean, and Gilbert watched as men and women scurried from their huts on shore onto the walkways above the eel-fences, checking and unloading the nets. It was just after spawning, so the yards were full of busy activity.

The crew of the Trakai had ample opportunity to sample the fruits of the villagers’ labour that evening. “Fresh stewed eel,” exclaimed Carl, smacking his lips in appreciation. “Say what you like about the meat of the land, but nothing beats the flesh of the sea.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Owen, idly waving a piece of dripping eel-meat about at the end of his dagger. “I could’ve done with a little more land-meat before we left Skaggerak.”

“I think the warmaster got his fill of land-meat, mind you,” said Carl slyly, winking at the others. There was a moment of shocked silence.

Gilbert made to rise, but before he could do anything more than lean forward, Sigurd had stood up. In a single smooth motion as he rose, the huge man lifted Carl by the belt and jerkin and simply heaved. Carl disappeared into the night. The company heard a surprised yell, and then a splash.
Sigurd sat down again in the sudden silence. “Sorry, warmaster,” Sigurd rumbled. “I get a bit of a nervous twitch sometimes. I don’t mean no harm.”

The entire company erupted into laughter, drowning out the sounds of Carl’s cursing and splashing.

The small fleet stood off the eel-yards for a few days, waiting for word on the current location of Ulrik Oathbreaker and his snaekkjes, the Hugin and the Munin. Gilbert spent the time profitably, drilling his own small band of marines (including a suitably contrite Carl), and coordinating his drills with Danask and the larger component of marines aboard the Red Dragon. The Freya and the Belgard had no squads of marines, relying solely on their fighting crews. Gilbert watched Gwennath’s brother Henrik put the oarsmen of the Belgard through combat drill. They weren’t bad, to Gilbert’s eye; but his own experience had taught him that there was no real replacement for a dedicated marine contingent in those vital first few moments of hand-to-hand fighting.

Still, Henrik’s drills reminded Gilbert that it was time to integrate the marines’ combat practice with combat drills for the rest of the crew. Although the marines could buy the Trakai those first few moments, if the crew was not ready to crash in shortly thereafter, the marines would pay for those first moments with their lives.

Although some grumbled, the majority of the crew fell to it with a will, and those who complained did so quietly, out of the hearing of Gilbert, Rugen, or (strangely enough) Sigurd.

[Gilbert]

Both Gilbert and Rugen had become tired of waiting. It was obvious that Ulrik was never going to hit the eel-yards, not with four ships anchored off King’s Head. In fact, it appeared that Ulrik had gone to ground; the fleet had no word of any sightings of the pirate or his ships anywhere.

Carloman was holding an officers’ meeting aboard the Red Dragon, and the impatience of the general company was beginning to show in its commanders.

“He’s a crafty old fox,” said Rugen, “and he’s holed up in some comfortable burrow somewhere. He can afford to sit tight longer than we can. Our only chance is to flush him out.”

Brannach, the morose captain of the Freya, shook his greying head from side to side. “Ulrik’s been up and down these coasts since we were all boys. If he wants to hide, we’ll never find him. And if we go a’looking, he’ll slip out of his hiding spot and raid the eel-yards.” Sterken, Brannach’s warmaster, nodded in approval of his shipmaster’s observations.

“And what of the mackerel grounds off Jensen’s Bay? And the salmon traps up the Peipus River?” asked Carloman, shortly. “The seal station off Lenore Rock? Who protects them from Ulrik while we sit here?”

Gilbert privately agreed with the captain of the Red Dragon. However, he did not, in truth, know what the answer to their puzzle was. Ulrik certainly knew these waters better than anyone, and they couldn’t protect every area at once.

“When the obvious strategies are found wanting, it’s time to turn to trickery.” The officers turned their heads in surprise towards Jasper, Harald Fair-Hair’s relative and shipmaster of the Belgard. Jasper’s eyes gleamed, and his brother Henrik had the smile of the badger who ate the mole. Jasper continued: “My brother and I have a plan that we think might snare our wayward uncle…”

The rest of the officers leaned in closer to the two young brothers.
Three nights later saw the Trakai and its crew nestled into a bend of the Peipus River. The night was cloudy, with next to no moonlight, which suited Gilbert and Rugen. They wished to remain concealed, or at least appear to have that intention.

Although they were supposed to alternate watches, they were both awake. Neither could sleep, both in anticipation of what was to come, and because of the uncertainty which surrounded Jasper and Henrik’s plan.

“Like a salmon in a laxakar,” Jasper had said, referring to the V-shaped traps which fisherfolk used to catch the salmon on their spawning runs. And, in truth, Jasper’s plan did fit this closely. The Trakai was the bait; it had the appearance of a single ship sneaking up the Peipus River to spy out Ulrik and his boats. The opportunity to pick off one of the fleet hunting him was a temptation Ulrik was unlikely to resist. However, the Freya and the Belgard had slipped quietly downriver two nights ago, using all of the craft at their disposal.

When Ulrik’s ships attacked, then, the Freya and the Belgard would come racing downriver. “Ulrik is a canny captain, and he’ll likely break off and flee for the ocean,” Brannach had protested. Jasper had nodded his head, smiling, and Henrik had said, “That’s where the Red Dragon will be – right at the mouth of the river. Ulrik’s ships will have nowhere to go, caught between three snaekkjes and a powerful drakkar.”

Of course, all of this was predicated on the idea that Ulrik actually was somewhere on the Peipus. Under his blanket in the cold night, Gilbert observed this to Rugen, not for the first time.

Rugen sighed. “One guess is as good as another, lad, and you know it as well as I.”

Gilbert nodded. True or not, it didn’t really make him feel any better.

[Gilbert]

In the near-total silence and darkness, the movement next to Gilbert was startling. Despite his surprise, Gilbert kept his voice to a low whisper. “Who in the Nine Hells is fidgeting about at this hour?”

A huge silhouette blocked out what little moonlight there was. “Oh. Good eve, Sigurd. What is it?”

Sigurd’s rumble was as soft as the huge man could make it. “Carl has something to tell that you really need to hear. You and the shipmaster both.”

Gilbert sat up straight, and nudged Rugen to get his attention.

“Understood,” he whispered to Sigurd. Where is he?”

“Right here,” came a whisper from somewhere in front of Sigurd. Gilbert hadn’t even seen the man in Sigurd’s shadow. “I’m sorry to bother you, Warmaster, but…”

Gilbert brushed this away impatiently. “Never mind that. What is it I need to hear?”

Carl coughed nervously. “Well, Warmaster, it’s like this…

“I spent my time in Skaggerak with a few of the boys down at the Bay’s Bounty, one of the dockside bars,” Carl began.

Rugen snorted. “One of the dockside slutshacks, ye mean.”

There was a pause. Then, “Well, mebbe so, but I wasn’t doin’ no harm to anyone,” protested Carl. “Ow – okay, Sigurd, okay! Anyways,” Carl continued, “I was there in the common room, sizing up the fancies, when I hear two of them chatting away in Thieves’ Cant. I doubt they were aware that I know the trick of it – “

“And I don’t want to know how you know it – “ interjected Rugen.

Gilbert gave him an annoyed glance, realized the ineffectiveness of this in the darkness, and muttered, “belay it, Ru, or we’ll be here all night.”

“So, anyways,” Carl went on, unaware in his nervousness of the muttered exchange, “they was sayin’, ‘I hear Lady Gwennath’s got her hooks into one of the officers…’”

Gilbert felt himself flush scarlet. Good old darkness, he thought.

“…and the other one says, ‘Or this outlander’s got his meathook into her, more likely’ – leave off, Sigurd! Ow! You told me to say it as I heard it!’”

“Thank you, Sigurd. Leave him be,” said Gilbert, his voice firmly under control. He was almost certain that he had heard a snort from Rugen.

“So anyways, the first one says, ‘The Dodger will give her a right thrashing when he gets back. He’s a right strict one for that sorta thing, worse than his brother.’”

Gilbert felt the hairs on his neck rise up. “The Dodger?” Surely that didn’t mean…

Sigurd interjected. “Carl had no idea what it meant. I do. The Dodger is an old nickname for Ulrik himself.”

Rugen said slowly, “The Dodger will give her a right thrashing when he gets back…”

There was silence. Then Rugen said, “Thank you, Sigurd, you’ve done the right thing. Very much so. Please take Carl with you, back to your sleeping quarters.” Gilbert and Rugen waited for the two men-at-arms to depart.

Gilbert sighed, deeply, feeling as if he were being deflated. “Oh, Colm’s sweet mother…”

“Then you think the same as I,” said Rugen flatly.

“Of course I do,” replied Gilbert hoarsely. “It’s Ulrik they were talking about, Ru. He and Harald never split. They’ve been playing a game to fox the Prince. Ulrik ‘steals’ his brother’s goods, so no tax need be paid on them. And Harald can claim the damage against Castamir’s pledge of protection. He turns a neat profit, without paying a bloody dime.” He sighed. “And then we show up to spoil the party…”

“Aye, Gil,” said Rugen. “We’ve been set up.”

[Gilbert]

The next few minutes saw a rude awakening for the ship’s pilot, a local navigator assigned by Jasper to help guide the Trakai through the trickier portions of the Peipus River. The man choked off a gasp as he felt a cord tighten around his windpipe, and then went completely still when he felt the edge of Gilbert’s knife pressing against his trachea.

“You’ve got one chance, and one chance only,” hissed Rugen, next to the terrified man’s ear. “We know we’ve been tricked. If you tell us which ships are going to ambush us, we’ll let you live. Well?”

The pilot, the whites of his eyes showing even in the dark night, nodded frantically. Rugen released the tension on the cord by a fraction.

“The Freya and the Belgard,” the man croaked hoarsely. “They’re due to come tomorrow, pull up alongside, and then board you.”

Rugen looked at Gilbert. Gilbert nodded. Rugen tightened the pressure on the cord again, until the pilot’s eyes rolled up in his head and the man fell into merciful unconsciousness. Rugen then let the cord slip, stopping short of killing the man. “Tie him up well and good,” Gilbert said to Sigurd, who was waiting patiently behind them. “Stow him in the hold. He’ll live if we do, and that’s as good a chance as I feel like giving him.”

Gilbert could see Sigurd’s toothy grin as he grabbed the man in one hand, holding the pilot like a sack of potatoes.

“So that’s it then,” said Rugen, gloomily. “The Freya and the Belgard on us, and the Hugin and the Munin on Carloman. Four against two becomes two against four, just like that. The tricky bastards.” He shook his head.

Gilbert clapped his hand on Rugen’s shoulder and said, “We’re not done yet. The advantage of surprise is with us, now. When we meet those two tomorrow, it’ll be on our terms, and those sneaky little f*ckers will have no idea what hit them. Besides, we’ve got to get word to the Red Dragon, if we can. They’re in this as deep as we are, and they’ve no idea that we’ve been sold out. We’ve got to get down to the mouth of the Peipus and warn them. Ulrik’s ships aren’t anywhere on this bloody river; trap or no trap, they can’t afford to get bottled up. They’ll be on open water, waiting to jump on Carloman. If Jasper and that longfaced arse Brannach are upriver where they should be, we’ve got a chance if we cast loose right now. If their ships are downriver, then we’ve a harder task ahead, but we still need to try.”

Rugen nodded. “The nail on the head, my lad; there’s the bloody nail on the bloody head. Alright, let’s get the crew in fighting order, you get your marines ready, and then it’s haul away anchor! Timber, sail and steel, me lad,” Rugen grinned mirthlessly, “someone’s going to get right f*cked before we’re done.”

[Gilbert]

The trip upriver was nerve-wracking. They inched through the water, because their pilot was now useless to them, they were in near total darkness, and they were trying to be as quiet as they could in order to catch any possible sound of the Freya or the Belgard. Rugen stood at the bow of the ship, straining to see any possible danger, while Gilbert stood at the stern, keeping an eye out for any nocturnal pursuit.

False dawn, with its hint of sunlight to come, saw the whole crew on edge. Rugen cursed as he saw the short distance they had traveled in the night. “Full on, lads!” he shouted. “To the ocean, and accursed be those who stand in our way!”

Gilbert nodded in approval. There was no point in a discreet profile now. They were out of position for no good reason; Jasper and Brannach would rightly guess that their trap had been discovered. By his estimate, they had a good half-day before they reached the mouth of the Peipus; the treacherous Skaggerak captains had done their work well in separating their enemies.

Gilbert sent Weyland, who had good distance vision, up the mainmast to keep an eye out for the Freya and the Belgard. If they were further upriver, wondering where the Trakai was, there was still a chance to reach the Red Dragon before the trap was sprung.

The quiet of the early, true dawn was split apart by a hideously eerie screeching noise. Both Gilbert and Rugen recognized it immediately, but the majority of the crew did not. “Settle down, lads!” called Rugen. “The sky’s not falling.” He cursed. “It’s a bloody signal. Ulrik must have spies along the river-banks.” The first screech was followed by a second, then a third. Gilbert, looking for them now, noted the flight of the arrows, which had been fitted with hollow bulbs at the tip, perforated to make a loud whistling noise. “East bank, by that great fir tree,” he said to Rugen. “Wish we had time to send a party ashore and silence the sod.”

Rugen’s face was grim. “We’ve no time for anything at all now, save to row and pray. They’ll be coming hard at as now. Their quarry’s fled, and now they know it.”

The next hour was spent anxiously. Rugen eased the pace of the rowers slightly, so as to keep some energy with the oarsmen in the event of a fight, which now seemed likely. Both Rugen and Gilbert kept glancing up towards Weyland, looking for some indication of the location of their pursuers.
When his call finally came, they were almost relieved to hear it. “Sails on the river!” cried Weyland. “Upriver! Upriver!”

The entire crew gave a shout of joy. Gilbert and Rugen grinned at each other. “Hard at it, boys,” roared Rugen. “You row for our lives!” The Trakai leapt forward like a hound loosed from its leash, surging with the strength the oarsmen had kept as a last reserve.

An instant later, however, they heard another call from Weyland. “Boom downriver, five hundred yards! Log-boom downriver, five hundred yards!”

“Bastards.” Rugen ground his teeth. “So that signal wasn’t just for the ships. Ulrik’s shut the bloody door on us.”

Gilbert was already moving. “Marines, to the launch! Bring axes!” He turned back towards Rugen. “Shipmaster, I’ll need some oarsmen, if you will.”

Rugen nodded. Gilbert shouted, “Back five, port and starboard, to the launch! Front five, port and starboard, string bows and grab arrows! Take positions on the bow to cover the launch!” He added, in a lower tone, “Good fortune, Ru.”

“And you, you crazy bastard,” replied Rugen. “All remaining oarsmen, quarter pace!” he shouted. “Bring us to within a hundred yards of the boom! Keep your axes ready at your sides; we’re in the right thick of it now!”

[Gilbert]

Two rope ladders had been thrown over the side, and the men were scrambling down the side of the Trakai into the launch. The sense of urgency in the air was palpable. Gilbert, having made sure of his supporting archers in the bow of the ship, was the last into the launch.

“I’m in!” he cried, as his feet touched the wooden hull of the skute. The sailors were already at their oars. “Row, ye bastards! To the boom, quick as you can!” The skute began to pick up speed.

Gilbert moved to the bow of the skute, peering forward at the log boom. “It’s secured with rope, not chain,” he told his marines. “Sigurd, I want you to cut the connecting ropes. Weyland, Carl, I want you to use your spears to push the logs apart once Sigurd has cut the ropes. Owen and Bran, axes and shields out. Move to the left and right of Weyland and Carl. Cover them from arrow fire, and be ready to repel the enemy. We can’t see anyone right now, but I guarantee you this boom is protected. Sailors, once you’ve brought us to the boom, get your bows out and be ready to provide covering fire.”

The launch was almost skipping forward up the river, and they were within jumping distance of the boom. Gilbert cursed. It was four logs thick. “Push the logs away from us, not towards us,” he called in final instruction. “Come on, boys. If we don’t break this boom, everybody dies!”

The skute bumped against the log boom just as the first arrows from the shore whistled towards them. “Move, marines!” shouted Gilbert. “Sailors, aim for where the arrows are coming from, even if you can’t see the archers.” Gilbert’s troops were already off the launch, moving unsteadily on the logs. By his reckoning, no more than five archers were firing on them. There must be more than this, thought Gilbert. We’re not that lucky.

The shore was perhaps a hundred metres away on either side; although some arrows from the northern bank were skipping close to the marines and sailors, no one had been hit. Gilbert was crouched in the skute, trying to keep an eye on his marines at the same time as watching both banks of the river for any surprises. Sigurd had positioned himself above the first of the thick cables binding the boom together, and brought his war-axe down in a mighty chop that reverberated throughout the log-boom.

Sigurd looked down to survery his handiwork, and cursed. “The rope’s twined with steel wire, warmaster!” he called to Gilbert.

Damn. No, we’re not that lucky. “Can ye do it, Sigurd?” Gilbert shouted back, as an arrow hissed past his hand like a striking snake.

“Yessir. Take me longer, though.” Sigurd was already raising his axe and bringing it crashing down again.

There was a curse from Bran. Gilbert looked up. The man did not appear to be wounded. “Are you alright, Bran?” he called.

“Aye, warmaster,” came Bran’s reply, through clenched teeth. “Bloody arrow skipped up off the logs and caught me shin! I kin stand, mind.” Even as Bran was speaking, another arrow whistled just past his head. “F*ckers,” he swore.

Too long, thought Gilbert. We’re going to get hurt. Just as he was readying his axe to help with the cables, he saw movement from the northern bank. The pirates were putting their own skute into the water, and piling as many people into it as they could. “Launch on the north bank!” shouted Gilbert. “Sailors, make our launch secure and move onto the boom. Bows out, and let’s give these bastards some of their own medicine!”

There was a loud cracking noise, and the boom shifted. Everyone struggled to maintain his balance. “One down, warmaster,” called Sigurd.

“Well done, Sigurd, keep at it!” Gilbert and the rest on the sailors were now standing on the boom, two ranks deep. “Front rank, on one knee,” he called, readying his own bow. “Ranks, firing in turns on my mark. Wait for my signal – let’s let them get a little closer.”

The air was filled with noise – the chunk of Sigurd’s axe hitting home, the hiss and whistle of the arrows around them, and the occasional thud as one of them bit into a shield or a log, the creak of the boom on the water itself, and the distant shouts and oarsplashes from the approaching pirate skute. Gilbert heard, watched, calculated, yet felt strangely distant from it all, as if he was watching it from some high vantage point.

The thought came unbidden into his head. She lied to me. She must have lied to me. She knew.

Gilbert shook his head. Well, she’s not bloody here now, is she? Best tend to yourself.

The pirate skute was almost within range. “Front rank, ready!” called Gilbert. “And… fire!” The front five sailors let fly, the bowstrings sounding in a deep thrum. “Second rank, fire!” Gilbert let loose his own arrow in concert with the standing rank. Gilbert noted the cries from the distant skute with satisfaction. One pirate fell from the enemy launch.

There was a whine of cables parting, and the boom shuddered once more. One of the sailors cried out as he lost his balance and fell into the river.

“Two down, warmaster,” came the call from Sigurd.

“Well done, man! Give us some warning on the third one, if ye can.”

“Aye!”

“Front rank, fire!” Gilbert looked down to make sure that the fallen sailor was all right. The fellow was climbing out of the water, but he had lost his bow. “Back to the launch, and make it ready!” called Gilbert to the waterlogged man.

“Second rank, fire!” The pirate skute was perhaps fifteen metres away. The firing from the northern bank had ceased as their fellow pirates came nearer to their goal. Gilbert could count some ten men still in the launch, although they had cut down the pirates’ numbers considerably. We’re in trouble, thought Gilbert.

“Front rank, fire and drop bows!” Gilbert’s front five sailors let fly one final time. The pirates ducked behind the gunwales of their skute, and Gilbert was unsure of his men’s effect. “Second rank, fire and drop bows!” One last strike before they were at it close quarters. Gilbert tossed his bow into the Trakai’s launch. Looking down at the launch, Gilbert saw a spare oarlock, thick rusted iron, lying at the bottom.

“Sigurd, keep at it! Bran and Owen, give your shields to Weyland and Carl! Form a wall behind them, all sailors and marines. Axes out and ready!”
He looked down at the lone sailor in the launch. “Pass me that old oarlock, lad,” he said. He grabbed the hunk of rusted metal and hefted it.

“Sir!” called Sigurd. “Third one’s going to – “

CRACK!

The cable snapped, pitching all of Gilbert’s men into the river, and casting all of Gilbert’s plans to hell.

[Gilbert]

The next few moments were a whirl of confusion, sound and sensation, as Gilbert managed to get himself to the surface of the water. He could barely see for the splashing chaos around him.

Amazingly, Sigurd had held his position on the final row of logs in the boom. However, the pirate skute was close, and Sigurd had his axe up and at the ready to defend himself. The rest of Gilbert’s marines and sailors were still in the water.

They would have to look after themselves for the moment. Gilbert hauled himself up onto the boom, next to Sigurd. “Keep chopping!” Gilbert shouted, as he pulled his own axe out of the loop on his belt where it had - thankfully – been held secure. “We’ve got to clear this boom, by St. Colm, or everybody dies!”

Sigurd wasted no time on words, but returned to his work on the fourth binding rope with a mighty swing. With only one line of logs still together, every one of Sigurd’s blows was sending a massive vibration throughout the entire boom, and Gilbert was damn near pitched into the water a second time.

The pirate launch was having difficulty reaching the boom, as some of the other great timbers were floating free, getting in the way of their boat. Another massive shudder through the boom, and Gilbert struggled to keep his balance. He risked a moment to look backwards, and saw in an instant that most of his fighting crew were back aboard their launch. Good, he thought. Before he turned back to face the pirates, he thought he saw Owen – or perhaps Bran, the two looked bloody identical – trying to reach the log boom.

“Keep to the launch, lads!” he called, without taking his eyes off the approaching pirates a second time. “There’s only enough room for me anyways!”

The boom shuddered a third time. Two of the pirates from the enemy skute had managed to reach the boom, and were making their way towards Gilbert, who stood between them and Sigurd. The closest drew a naked cutlass from his belt, as the second one drew a long, serrated dagger.

Gilbert shifted into a fighting stance as best he could, widening his feet and dropping his hips. “Are you ready, you bastards?” he taunted them. “It’s time for PAIN!”

This slowed the second fellow down slightly, but the pirate with the cutlass, a big hairy ape of a man, simply bared his teeth in a humourless grin and charged at Gilbert. Gilbert, who had been hoping for this response, suddenly jumped up and down, hard, on his end of the log they were now both standing upon. As his end went down, the other fellow’s end went up. Very suddenly. The man’s eyes widened as he sought to keep his balance, all thoughts of attack or defence forgotten. Gilbert swiftly moved across the log, timing the swing of his axe with the upward bounce of the bobbing log. Gilbert slid his hands from a wide grip to a tight one, increasing the torque of his upward swing. The pirate’s jaw simply exploded, and the man tried wetly to scream as he fell into the river.

Another massive shudder was too much for Gilbert. Trying to recover from his swing while trying to keep his balance left Gilbert spinning into the river.
Even as he fell, Gilbert was thinking, Sweet Saint Avlyn, I’m a sitting duck for that second bugger. Hoping to avoid a slashed face as soon as surfaced, but not wanting to abandon Sigurd, Gilbert stayed underwater and swam a distance down the log, close – he hoped – to where Sigurd was.
He surfaced, but water could be deceptive for distance, and he was still far too close to the second pirate. He felt a hot sting across the side of his head, as he did not quite manage to evade the man’s long knife. The fellow was crouched low, holding onto the log with one hand, slashing at Gilbert with his knife in the other.

Gilbert reached up, trying to grab the man’s arm and pull him into the water. He missed, however, and the pirate hissed in triumph as he prepared to slash backhand at Gilbert’s face.
Suddenly the man grunted and catapulted backwards off the log. Gilbert looked back and saw that Bran had managed to find a bow back in the launch, and was waving for Gilbert to swim over. At the same time, there was another enormous CRACK! from the boom, and Sigurd roared in triumph.

Gilbert began to swim for the launch, which was beginning to pull away from the chaos of timbers. There was another great splash, which he hoped was Sigurd taking to the water. It was an agonizing few seconds that felt much longer as Gilbert swam for the skute, expecting a knife or arrow between his shoulder-blades at any moment. Within moments, however, hands were pulling him over the side, and he collapsed like a clubbed eel against the gunwale.

Across from him, he saw Sigurd, panting and gasping. He reached across and clasped the huge man’s hand. “Well done,” breathed Gilbert. “Bloody well done.”

He looked at the crew of the launch. The sailors were already pulling hard at the oars, heading back for the Trakai. Weyland, Carl, Owen and Bran – all of them still alive, Gilbert was relieved to note – were helping at the oars. Bran looked back and grinned at Gilbert. Gilbert closed his eyes and bowed his head to the man who had saved his life.

“Well done, lads!” he called, his energy returning. “We’ve won ourselves a fighting chance!”

[Gilbert]

The Trakai was mere moments away, already picking up speed to make its way through the tangle of logs that was the remains of the boom. Gilbert’s sailors brought the skute alongside the snaekkje as it picked up speed, and the sailors above threw down a series of lines to secure the skute to the longship.

Gilbert had never climbed a rope ladder up the side of a moving ship before, and had no desire to repeat the experience. Nevertheless, he felt a fierce joy, a joy that came from meeting an obstacle head on, and emerging on the other side. Once aboard the Trakai, he ran to the bow to meet Rugen.
The thick-bearded captain clapped Gilbert by the arm. “Well done, Gil. Cheers, man.”

Gilbert grinned back at his friend. “Aye, well, someone had to get this misbegotten crate moving.”

Rugen eye’s widened. “Misbegotten crate? There’ll be words between us when this is all done, my lad, you mark me.”

Gilbert laughed. “How’s the distance? Will they catch us, Ru?”

Rugen’s face grew grim. “It’s going to be tight, Gil, bloody tight. With the sail up and the east wind, we’ll keep ahead of them as long as we keep hard at the oars. I’ll need my sailors back, thank you very much.”

“And welcome to them.” Gilbert looked back at the sailors, who were already making their way to the lower deck and their places at the oars. “They did well, shipmaster. They shaped right bloody well.”

“So did your marines, warmaster,” replied Rugen. He laughed. “I’ll tell you, it was bloody entertaining from this vantage point. Ye could have sold tickets for that little skirmish, and nobody would be asking for their coins back.”

Gilbert chuckled in response. “So glad we gave you your money’s worth. It was wet work, that’s for damn sure. How long till we reach the mouth of the Peipus?”

Rugen scowled. “Well, since I’ve no trust for our local navigator, I’m not as sure as I’d like… but my best guess would be three hours, barring no further surprises like that bloody log-boom.”

“Here’s hoping,” agreed Gilbert. “Well, I’d best leave you to tend to your ship, and I’ll see to my men. They did a fine job; I’m quick to let them know when they’ve cocked it up, they might as well hear me say something complimentary.”

“You’re getting soft in your old age,” said Rugen.

Gilbert made a rude gesture as he walked back along the narrow upper deck.

[Gilbert]

If the fight on the boom had been hard work for Gilbert’s marines, the race to the sea was harder for Rugen’s sailors. Although they had the east wind, so did the Freya and the Belgard; so it was down to the strength in the shoulders and backs of the oarsmen. Gilbert sat with his marines in the stern of the Trakai. Although their two pursuers were still out of sight to all save the watchman on the mainmast, they still looked over the stern periodically.

Gilbert squatted next to Bran. “Let’s have a look at that shin, man,” he said.
Bran shifted onto his backside and extended his left leg onto the rough wood of the deck. He winced as he did so. Gilbert rolled Bran’s pant leg back to look at the man’s shin. His eyes narrowed. The front of Bran’s shin was a mess, perhaps six inches below the knee; there was a coin-sized area where the skin was already beginning to purple, and below that a section of flesh that looked like it had been attacked with a cheese grater.

Bran grunted with pain as Gilbert felt both areas with his thumbs. Gilbert looked up at the marine, who was looking down none too kindly upon his commander. Gilbert smiled. “Sorry, lad,” he said. “But the news is good. No pieces of the arrow in your leg. You’ve probably got a bone bruise where the arrowhead hit” - he pointed to the coin-sized bruise – “and I’ll need to clean the grazes from the fletchings so they don’t get infected. River-water can be filthy.” He looked at Sigurd. “Speaking of which, I’ll get you to do the same for my little souvenir,” he said, gesturing to the side of his head where the blood had caked. Sigurd nodded.

Little had changed within the next hour, save that both Gilbert and Bran were far less likely to catch river-fever. Rugen was in the bow, watching for any blockage in the river that might slow them down. Incredibly, the sailors were maintaining their gruelling pace, and according to their lookout, the Trakai had gained slightly on the Freya and Belgard.

“The sea! The sea!” came the sudden call from the lookout. Everyone on the ship raised his head to the man who excitedly shouted from the mainmast. “Five hundred metres due west! Three sails! The Red Dragon is fighting two snaekkjes!”

There was a roar from the entire crew. Gilbert dashed forward to consult with Rugen. Even as he ran, he felt the Trakai increase its pace, without even a word from the shipmaster.

“What’s the plan, Ru?” asked Gilbert as he caught up to his friend.

“If we have a clear shot, I’d love to take one of Ulrik’s snaekkje’s amidships, with as little warning as possible,” replied Rugen. “Left to its own, the Red Dragon will make mincemeat of a single craft, and then we’ll have a shot at turning on the final two together. I’m going to have to call it on the fly.”
Gilbert nodded. “Where do you want us?”

“Stay by the mainmast and wait for my orders.”

Gilbert slapped his friend on the shoulder, and made for the middle of the ship, calling, “Marines! Make ready at the mainmast!”

[Gilbert]

Although the air was full of noise – the grunts of the sailors, the slap of the oars against the water, the creak of the timber, the snapping of the sail – Gilbert felt as if he completely alone, watching events as if he was in a dream. All of his attention was focused upon the scene ahead of him.

The mouth of the river was now clearly visible from the upper deck of the Trakai, and beyond it, three ships locked in battle. The Red Dragon was holding its own; one of Ulrik’s longships had smoke coming from its midsection, and neither of the snaekkjes had really managed to inflict any serious damage upon the drakkar. The larger ship’s warboards were peppered with arrows, but the greater height of the Red Dragon was helping Castamir’s soldiers to win the archery battle.

“Ready spears and shields, boys,” said Gilbert to his marines. “If I’m any judge, we’ll be boarding one of Ulrik’s sodding ships.” His men nodded. Bran, despite his injury, had a wolfish grin upon his face. Keep note of this one, boyo, Gilbert thought to himself, this one’s got the fire in his belly.

The river widened into a delta as they approached the sea, and with a shift of the wind, the smell of the salt was in everyone’s nostrils. The Trakai was no more than two hundred yards away from the closest of Ulrik’s snaekkje’s, but the pirates did not appear to have noticed that all was not going according to plan.

Gilbert would not have thought it possible, but the Trakai put on a further burst of speed, seeking to close with the nearer of the two snaekkjes before Ulrik’s men knew they were there. The longship slowed slightly as it bit into the mixture of currents at the mouth of the Peipus, but picked up speed again as it hit the flow of freshwater at the centre of the delta.
“We’re going to bloody nail them,” Gilbert heard Carl mutter behind him, and indeed it did look likely. A hundred yards away, and still the snaekkje had not noticed the Trakai, so intent was it on circling the Red Dragon, like a hungry wolf.

Fifty yards. Gilbert held his breath.

Twenty-five yards. The second of Ulrik’s longships, coming out from behind the Red Dragon, could see the onrushing Trakai as clear as day. They frantically shouted at the crew of the oblivious pirate vessel, but it was too late. The Trakai’s bow, hardened at the tip, was dead set at the middle of the snaekkje’s hull.

Fifteen yards. “Hold on, boys!” roared Gilbert, as he gripped a rope encircling the mainmast.

One final sweep, and the sailors quickly lifted and shipped the oars, then held on to whatever they could.

The noise was unbelievable – an earthquake could be nothing compared to the chaos of ramming a ship, thought Gilbert. Although Gilbert had tried to hang on as best he could, he found himself flung to the deck. As he tried to stand, he felt the sky and deck swimming around him.

As he finally got to his feet, he heard Rugen call the order to unship the oars. Bloody hell, thought Gilbert, we must have stoved in the side of Ulrik’s ship. One quick glance at the scene confirmed it. The pirate longship had a gaping hole amidships, and water was already pouring into its hold. The whole vessel was listing dramatically to starboard. Rugen’s oarsmen were frantically backing water, in an effort to avoid being drawn into the doomed vessel’s collapse.

A shout from the bow brought Gilbert fully to his senses. Although the two ships had collided only briefly, it had been enough time for some of Ulrik’s pirates to leap from their doomed longship onto the Trakai. Rugen, his cutlass out and flashing, was finding himself hard pressed.

“C’mon, boys!” shouted Gilbert as he hefted his battle-axe. Some of the oarsmen had leapt from their places to help Rugen, but the situation could fall apart rapidly without the arrival of Gilbert and his troops.

By Gilbert’s rapid count, some seven pirates had managed the leap from the pirate ship to the Trakai. One of them was down already, bleeding from his guts, but one of Rugen’s sailors was down as well. Rugen himself was backing away along the upper deck, trying to buy time. One pirate in particular, a huge fellow with a fearsome boar’s-head helm, was preventing Rugen from breaking contact completely.

Gilbert raced past Rugen, keeping his body position low, aiming a swipe at the big fellow to put him off his aim, and crashing stomach-height into the next pirate. The stocky warmaster put his shoulder into the man, and the fellow went flying. Sigurd and Bran were hard on Gilbert’s heels, and blew past Gilbert into the next rank of pirates before the enemy sailors had time to react to Gilbert’s attack.

Gilbert, in the meantime, was pivoting to face the man he had run past, and was barely able to fall to the timbers in order to avoid the axe-sweep that would have disembowelled him otherwise. Gilbert rolled with a curse, feeling the massive fellow’s axe-head bite into the deck of the Trakai. He took advantage of the man’s momentary difficulty in prising his weapon free to kick the fellow squarely on his knee-cap, scrambling quickly to his feet as the boar-helmed man howled in pain.

The man was limping now as he approached Gilbert, but his undiminished fury was plain to see behind a screen of boar-tusks. Rugen, whom Gilbert had momentarily forgotten, stepped past his friend to aim a thrust at the fierce fellow’s stomach, but the enraged warrior swept Rugen’s blow aside with his axe, then thrust the axe-head forward directly at Gilbert’s face.

Gilbert ducked the thrust, dropping his hips and keeping his back straight, then rose up with his own axe to hook his axe-head behind his opponent’s. He pulled back mightily, bringing his surprised enemy staggering forward, off balance. Even as the man was stumbling forward, Gilbert kicked him savagely in the groin, twisted his weapon free of his opponent’s, and brought his axe around in a massive sweep that connected with the man’s neck, half-severing the fellow’s head and dropping him to the deck, dead in an instant.

Gilbert immediately looked towards his next possible opponent, only to see that there was none. Sigurd and Bran had carried their charge straight into the remainder of the pirates, who had fallen back under the two’s combined assault, and become easy prey for the long spears of Carl, Owen, and Weyland, not to mention the biting daggers and axe-heads of the oarsmen on the lower deck. The fight, brief and savage, was finished.

[Gilbert]

Gilbert, breathing hard, leaned on Rugen, who stood panting beside him. “Bloody hell, Ru,” said Gilbert, “when does this day’s business end?”

Rugen snorted, caught between laughter and gasping for breath. “Fame and fortune, Gil… bloody fame and fortune. This day ends when Ulrik’s head is on a pig-pole.”

Gilbert’s face grew grim. “Aye, so it does.” His face could have been carved from stone. “And another reckoning on this day’s heels.” Rugen looked away.

Sigurd, his broad chest slick with sweat and blood, came striding up behind Rugen. “Warmaster,” the marine said, “a thought, before we sling these bodies over the side. Do we even know what Ulrik looks like? For all we know…”

Gilbert nodded. “Aye. I think I’ll go have a chat with our captured navigator. Will ye join me, Sigurd?” The huge fellow’s teeth grinned whitely.
“Quickly, damn you,” growled Rugen. “Carloman’s got the other pirate bastard well in hand, but the Freya and Belgard will be along any time now.”

Gilbert waved a hand in acknowledgement as he and Sigurd headed to the lower deck.

In truth, Gilbert had never been greatly enamoured of any ship below decks: the roll of the ship was far more obvious, and the creaks and groans of the ship’s timbers made a fearsome din. The oarsmen were at rest now, leaning over their oars and breathing heavily as they passed great waterskins back and forth. At the bow below decks sat the traitorous navigator, hunched and trembling. The fellow would have been right at the point of impact when we rammed, realized Gilbert. By these ten finger-bones, I would not have wanted to be in his shoes then. Gilbert smiled. Serves the little bastard right.

“Well, you lucky bastard, it looks like you won’t drown after all!” roared Gilbert, as he strode forward to stand before the navigator. “Sigurd, help the fellow up!”

The marine grabbed the slightly built man in one massive fist. The fellow squawked as Sigurd lifted him completely off his feet. The navigator’s head brushed the ceiling.

“Mind you, we still haven’t decided whether we toss you over the side, ropes and all, or put you down on dry land,” said Gilbert amiably. “So do yourself a favour, me lad.” The navigator nodded vigorously. “Describe Ulrik for me, will you?”

The small man blinked, thrown by the question. Sigurd straightened his arm, causing the fellow to strike his head upon the wooden ceiling. “Ow!” cried the fellow, struggling. “I heard the question! Give me a moment…”

Thud. “Ow! Alright, alright! He’s a big fellow, a match for his brother in height and breadth, but bald as an egg. He has a long scar that runs half down one side of his face, from ear to mouth. That’s all I know… wait, he has a raven tattoo on the back of one hand; his right, I think.”

Gilbert nodded to Sigurd, who set the navigator back, none too gently, in his position at the bow of the ship. “Well, let’s have a look,” said Gilbert, and the two returned to the upper deck.

The other marines had already laid the bodies of the pirates in a row across the deck. Gilbert surveyed them. They all had beards or moustaches, and full heads of hair. Save perhaps… Gilbert walked over to the corpse of the man he had felled, and gingerly tipped the fellow’s boar’s-head helm back. It was not an easy task; the man’s neck was half-severed, and the head had more inclination to leave with the hemlet than stay with the rest of the body. The head beneath the helmet was completely bald.

“Ah.” Gilbert signalled to Sigurd, who came over to examine the body. Gilbert pointed out the puckered pink scar that slashed across the man’s face, from ear to mouth. Sigurd lifted up the corpse’s right arm, and Gilbert pulled off the heavy leather gauntlet. On the hand beneath was a tattoo of a raven, inked in blue. Sigurd looked at Gilbert, who nodded. “Shipmaster!” called Gilbert. “Our quarry’s right here – we got the bugger and didn’t even know it!”

“Well done, warmaster!” came Rugen’s answering shout. “But leave off your celebrations for the moment, if you will. Carloman has sight of the other two snaekkjes, and we need to craft some further devilment before this day is done!”

Gilbert called his acknowledgement, then turned to Sigurd. “I have one task to finish before we move on,” he said, drawing his dagger from his belt. “Fetch me a sack, like so” – he made a space with his hands – “and stuff a goodly amount of salt into it.”

[Gilbert]

Returning with my spoils indeed, thought Gilbert grimly. He had not moved from his position at the bow of the Trakai for the entire day. None of the ship’s company had dared to disturb him as he stood there, rigid as stone, an emerald brooch in one hand and a burlap sack in the other.

The rest of the battle had been a simpler affair than they would have imagined. The Freya and the Belgard had come flying out of the river-delta, only to face the wrath of a fully outfitted Red Dragon.
Attempting to flee back up the river, they discovered the Trakai had snuck in behind them.

The two traitorous ship-captains had surrendered without a fight, and now both they and their warmasters lay in the hold of the Red Dragon, clapped in irons. The two victorious ships had divided their men in order to crew the additional two vessels.

Now all four ships returned to Skaggerak, for a final accounting. Gilbert had stationed himself in the bow of Rugen’s snaekkje since the warships had turned for Harald Fair-Hair’s domain, and there he had remained.

The sun dipped below the horizon, and the first of the stars became visible in the sky. Gilbert, as if emerging from a reverie, heard footsteps come close behind him.

“Good eve, Gilbert.” It was Rugen.

Gilbert did not wish to be rude to his friend, but he felt at a loss for words. “Good eve, Rugen,” he managed.

“Gil… I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry, old friend.”

“And me, Ru, and me.” Gilbert sighed. “I don’t know what to say either. I don’t think I will until I see her.”

Harald Fair-Hair was, above and beyond anything else, a survivor.
He offered no fight to the warfleet that entered his harbour. Harald had played his last trump card on the Peipus River, and was not about to play out a losing hand. Carloman had explained the likely outcome the day before, as he had met with Gilbert, Rugen, and his newly appointed captains in the great fore-cabin of the Red Dragon.

“He’ll surrender without a fight,” said Carloman, sighing. Danask nodded behind him. “Harald is a rich man, with many friends in these islands. This setback will cost him dear – come damn close to bankrupting him – but he’ll remain the power in these parts for a fair time to come.”

Gilbert’s eyebrows rose in disbelief. “So he keeps his head, and treason bedamned?”

Carloman shook his head. “Aye, warmaster. Though he’ll have precious little to adorn his head with, when Castamir’s taxmen get through with him. That’s what it was about all along, of course.”

Rugen laughed. “A rather energetic way of avoiding the taxmen. Until we spoiled the show.”

“Aye,” said Gilbert moodily, “until we spoiled the show. Well,” he said, rising, “I’ll be having words with him on the morrow, and we’ll see how he wriggles out of it.”

Carloman looked at Gilbert in alarm, and raised a hand. “Easy now. Harald is not to be harmed. My lord Castamir’s advisors will be coming soon to arrange for reparation payments. Our job is to sit on the lord of Skaggerak until they arrive.”

Gilbert smiled. “Don’t worry, captain. I’ll do no harm to the precious Fair-Hair. All I wish to do is collect a debt.

Harald Fair-Hair’s hall had changed little since the last time Gilbert had seen it.

There were certain differences, of course – the marines of the Red Dragon standing guard at the many doors of the meadhall, and the absence of any soldiers in the colours of Skaggerak – but Lord Harald still sat at the head of the high table, still arrogant, still the ruler of his city. His famous hair tumbled over his ermine robe, and his hands gripped the arms of his huge oaken chair. The broad-bellied chamberlain, Thialfi, stood at Harald’s right hand. He was not holding his composure as well as his master; all trace of mirth was gone from the man’s face, and sweat was visibly running down the fellow’s jowls.

Gwennath was there, too, a few places down from Lord Harald. Gilbert did not allow himself to look at her.

Carloman was winding up his speech to the master of Skaggerak. Gilbert had barely registered anything of what the ship-captain had said. He was only waiting for his cue.

“And finally,” Carloman said, “Gilbert, warmaster of the Trakai, has a debt to claim against your lordship.”

There. His cue. Willing his legs to move, Gilbert strode towards the high table. Even as he walked, Gilbert felt his anger returning, giving an aggressive arrogance to his stride. Harald noticed the insolence of the warmaster’s gait, and his eyes narrowed. He perched forward in his throne, a bird of prey with pride unbroken.

“My lord Harald Fair-Hair,” began Gilbert, his tone removing the title of any respect. “When we left Skaggerak, you made us all a promise.”

Harald’s brow momentarily furrowed in uncertainty. He doesn’t remember, thought Gilbert, the bastard doesn’t even remember.

“You promised a pair of golden arm-bands,” said Gilbert. Harald cocked his head. “To the man who brought you Ulrik’s head,” Gilbert finished flatly. He opened the burlap sack in his right hand onto the floor. Rough salt spilled to the floor, followed by the ruined head of Harald’s brother. It thudded, wetly, then began to roll. Gilbert stopped it with his boot.

The hall filled with murmurs. “I am here to claim my promised prize,” said Gilbert, not taking his eyes from the lord Harald’s. The murmuring grew louder, then suddenly stopped as Harald rose.

Harald said nothing. He looked down upon Gilbert with utter aristocratic contempt, and wordlessly stripped two thick bands of reddish gold from his own arms. He cast them to the ground before Gilbert, where they clinked together on the rush-strewn floor. Then, silently, Harald returned to his chair.

But Gilbert was not finished. “I repay my debts also,” he said to the silent, brooding lord. Gilbert stepped forward to where Gwennath sat, and allowed himself to look at her for the first time.

In her eyes, he saw grief, pain, and fear. In his eyes, she saw nothing.

Nothing at all.

Gilbert laid the golden love-knot in front of her with a soft click, clearly audible in the hall. It seemed as if everyone was holding his or her breath.

Gwennath looked at him, her eyes red, her mouth trembling.

Gilbert said, simply, “You shouldn’t have lied to me.” Then he turned, picked up the arm-bands from the floor, and bowed to lord Harald, mockingly. He walked directly out of the hall, and never looked back.

[Gilbert]

Gilbert said little on the return journey. The captain and crew, sensing his mood, left him largely alone. When Gilbert asked to be let ashore on the Bight of St. Colm’s Inch, Rugen decided to throw a small farewell party. There was a closeness to the gathering, founded upon the hard times they had faced together, but no celebration.

Gilbert made sure to say his farewells to everyone in turn. He congratulated Bran on his wound – a good souvenir to remember the battle by, he said – and commended Owen, Weyland, and Carl for their courage.

Speaking privately to Sigurd, Gilbert allowed himself a brief smile. “Give my regards to Fealthow, Sigurd. I believe he is still the commander of Lord Castamir’s intelligence agents?”

Sigurd leaned back and laughed heartily. “Well done, Gilbert, well done. I should have expected nothing less from one of Prince Hakon’s former heralds. When did you become aware of my double identity?”

“When you directed us to Carl’s overheard conversation. I take it we weren’t figuring out the trap quickly enough?”

Sigurd snorted. “You weren’t figuring it out at all. I thought I was going to have to tip my hand and reveal my true purpose.”

“Which was?”

“Well, let’s just say that Lord Castamir had a suspicion that Harald was playing a double-game,” said Sigurd.

“Ah.” Gilbert nodded. “I had forgotten what it felt like, to be the last one to know anything.”

Sigurd smiled. “Then you truly have put intelligence work behind you.”

“That I have, my friend, that I have.” Gilbert stood up, and clapped Sigurd on the shoulder. “Whatever your reasons, you fought well and stood at my shoulder. Thank you. I wish you fair sailing.”

Sigurd stood as well. “Fair sailing to you, warmaster. It was an honour to fight under your command.”

Gilbert’s last words were to Rugen.

“Farewell my friend,” he said to the thick-bearded captain. He clasped Rugen’s arm. “We have had good days together.” Gilbert sighed. “But this last turn of events has left a sour taste in my mouth. I can think of no joy to be found in this craft, not now, anyway. I will have to find some other trail to follow.”

“Aye, Gil,” the shipmaster responded. “I’ve seen it in you, since the battle at the mouth of the Peipus. I wish you luck, my friend. I hope you find your trail.”

“I hope so, too. Well,” said Gilbert shouldering his pack, “best begun soonest.” He bowed to his friend, who laughed and slapped Gilbert on the back.

Then Gilbert turned, and began marching from the shore up the steep hill of St. Colm’s Inch. And where do I go? he thought to himself, as he began to fight his way through brush, following a game-trail. A branch whipped against his forehead, and he cursed.

Wherever it is, I hope there’s not so many bloody trees.

[Witchblade]

Just as a side note, I typed ‘snaekkje’ into Google to see if anything came up for it because with you I couldn’t tell if it was some kind of historical name you pulled out of your ass. The only thing that came up was a link to Althanas and your quest, which I found immensely humorous; you have totally and utterly made up a new word, congratulations.

And now the former student shall grade her former teacher, how weird is that.

Introduction: - 6 The introduction felt slow. The posts were short and not much seemed to really be happening, you were describing your surroundings and what was going on but there wasn’t a lot of interaction on your characters part until he meets up with Rugen. Introductions usually are longer posts and yours seemed too short, yes it gave information on what was going on and how your character came to be there but I think you could have combined the first two posts together and perhaps put in a few more thoughts on what was running through Gilbert’s head.

Setting: - 8 Your descriptions of the settings were beautiful and well done. The ship’s descriptions at times became confusing but that is mostly because I know nothing of ships and wouldn’t know the bow from the stern, however take into account the fact that not everyone reading your quest may know the bow from the stern. Your character also made good use of his surroundings and you interacted beautifully with them, especially when it came to attacking that Boom.

Strategy: - 8 Well warmaster, you did an excellent job of convincing me that you truly were the warmaster of that snaekkje. The drills you had the soldier’s performing reminded me of something the Roman’s would do, but none the less, it was very convincing and your character was quick and smart in the heat of the moment coming up with interesting strategies to fight against his enemies. The use of the ship as a weapon itself was also very smart, and the strategies you had the characters themselves come up with were very life-like to the situation at hand.

Dialogue: - 8 I love your dialogue, it flows very nicely between the characters and you only have dialogue when it is necessary. Not to mention the fact that your character speaks exactly like the time he is in, something you don’t see too often. His words, his mannerism, I could even hear a rough accent on him whenever I read through it. The terms you used between the men were great and well thought out, good job on making this seem like a push back in time and giving it that realistic shove.

Character: - 7 You introduce your character slowly but well in this story. There was development and we got a clear picture of just whom Gilbert really is, not to mention you were able to keep most of the NPC’s relatively dispersed with different personalities. There were a lot of them though and so like any quest it is a little harder to keep track of so many. Gilbert falling in love with Gwennath completely threw me off, I just never pictured him to fall head over heels like that, but I thought it cute though disappointing when we never got to hear her side of the story and see if there was a reason she lied to him.

Rising Action: - 6 Like I stated before, the beginning of this quest really starts off slow, even with Gilbert being appointed warmaster to Rugen’s snaekkje, nothing big really happens until the last seven posts in the quest. However once you reach that point I was right there on the edge of my seat and I couldn’t stop reading. Very well written and very well orchestrated, however the beginning lacked any kind of real action, though it was interesting it was still slow.

Climax: - 6 Nothing special in your climax, yes there was a battle that was to be expected, but you surprisingly killed the man you were looking for without your character even knowing it. Interesting, no large lengthy battle of wills between two people that has little point so I can’t complain, but it felt wanting. Also, the second climax where Gilbert gives Lord Harald the head and talks to Gwennath was nicely written and nicely done. I did want to hear something from Gwennath though, however you left that open and I wonder if you’ll do anything more with it, though likely not.

Conclusion: - 7 The conclusion of Gilbert trudging his way through a thick forest to yet another adventure made me smile. It fit the character so well, especially the remark about there not being ’so many bloody trees’. Interestingly enough your character communicates with trees so you’d think he’d like them a little better, then again he was in a sour mood. The entire conclusion wraps the story up nicely, clearly your character did what he was hired to do and in his mind things are finished with Gwennath, though I wonder about what’s going on, on her end.

Writing Style: - 7 Your overall writing style is good. There were a few grammatical mistakes here and there—shame you English teacher!—nothing that another glance at the post could have remedied, but no one’s perfect. Your description of scenery was brief enough not to bore yet vivid enough to elicit a picture from the imagination, the ships were also well described, as were the towns and especially the people and their actions. In the beginning I found it kind of lacking though, there was something missing from your writing that you seemed to pick up more of towards the end, perhaps you had a bad writing day, I’m not sure, it just felt like you weren’t there.

Wild Card: - 6 Hmmm…wild card, wild card…that’s a tricky one. I enjoyed this whole quest, your over all language and how you directed Gilbert as a warmaster really gave me the indication that you put thought and effort into this.

Total Score: 69

As a side note, please request any spoils OOCly in the last post to make things easier on the Judge.


Rewards!!

Gilbert receives the two gold armbands.
Gilbert receives 350 Gold for the completed job.
Gilbert receives 1,550 experience points.

[Zieg dil' Tulfried]

EXP and GP added! Gilbert leveled up!