Beneath dark waters, p.2
Beneath Dark Waters, page 2
With a heavy sigh, Torin staggered over to the nearest body. He approached each man strewn across the shore, crouching achingly beside them, shaking their shoulders to confirm whether they were dead or not, holding his fingers beneath their nostrils testing for breath. Torin tried to speak, to urge them to wake, but his throat was too raw to utter more than a few hoarse words.
Some of the bodies were so mangled or sprawled in such unnatural positions that Torin didn’t need to check to know they were dead.
Of the twenty men that Torin found on the small stretch of coastline, seven were alive, in varying degrees of wellness. Only three of the survivors were able to walk unassisted.
“Find a village and get help.” Torin rasped to the least injured men. “Have them ready a healer.”
The three nodded and grunted their agreement before stumbling along the base of the cliff in search of an incline that led to the top. The group had washed up on a narrow coastline at the foot of a sheer cliff. Were the storm still raging, Torin knew the waves would be beating down on this rock-strewn coastline and all of them would have drowned. If Torin was a religious man, he would say it was a blessing from any one of the countless deities that the weather was fair, giving the eight of them a chance to live – but he wasn’t.
At last, the trio of bloodied, broken survivors disappeared up a narrow slant between some rocky outcrops. They staggered up the steep incline cautiously, gripping clumps of spiky marram grass to steady themselves until they managed to safely reach the top.
Thankfully it didn’t take them long to find help. What seemed to be an entire village appeared atop the cliff upon their return. Curious faces stared down at the scene of rubble and corpses. Shabbily dressed boys as young as ten to ancient old men, straggly and leathery, as wrinkled and gnarled as the bark of a tree trunk, scrambled down the cliffside towards Torin and the other survivors, calling to them in Hebiwan.
Despite being half-Hebiwan himself, Torin couldn’t speak more than a handful of phrases in the language – stutteringly at that. Torin’s mother-tongue was Sirinese, the common tongue and trade language of the world of Bodan. The only other language Torin was fluent in was Nord, the dialect of the northern countries, due to growing up on the isle of Rim with the Middenheim Guard from the age of ten. Nord wouldn’t help the jaeger in Hebiwa.
An image of his beloved Celia’s heart-shaped face materialised suddenly in Torin’s mind, her waist-length brown hair cascading around her lovely countenance in dark tousled waves. Her luscious full-lipped mouth curved in a wide, radiant grin, sparkling just as brightly as her honey brown eyes. Celia could speak Hebiwan. Celia could speak a list of languages as long as Torin’s arm. Celia, who had been born in the Velvet Pearl brothel and never left it, who hadn’t stepped foot outside of the wayside town of Wildemaw, could speak more languages than Torin could count, yet he was the one traipsing across the world while Celia – intelligent, sweet, beautiful Celia! – was trapped in that damn brothel, the world nothing but a story recounted to her by patrons, travellers, and Torin.
With the kraken dead, Torin could finally return to his darling Celia. It had been too long since he’d lain in her arms. He was excited to return to her with a bag full of silver from King Erik. Maybe with finances secured, he could convince Celia to finally marry him and begin a new life far away from Wildemaw …
“You’re okay?” A villager asked in broken Sirinese.
“Mhmm, yes,” Torin rasped, nodding.
The villager motioned the jaeger to follow him.
It was too dangerous to carry the injured and dead up the narrow, slanting path along the sheer face of the cliff. Instead, the villagers worked diligently crafting two stretchers out of wooden planks and rope while others worked on a pair of pully systems near the edge of the clifftop. It took hours for them to gather the required items and build it all, but, at last, the first stretcher was lowered to the bottom of the cliff. An injured crewman was strapped to it with ropes across his waist and legs before being carefully towed up to the top.
It was harrowing to watch the slow ascent of the stretcher. With painstaking care not to rock it as they hauled it up, the villagers managed to safely retrieve the injured man, carefully untying him and whisking him out of sight from those below.
With all the injured safely at the top of the cliff, their wounds being tended to by a team of fishermen’s wives, the dead were now being gathered. For hours, the villagers trawled the shore in search of bodies, gathering them at the foot of the cliff path. Torin winced and hissed through his teeth, pain radiating through him while he carried corpses to the bottom of the path, refusing to let his wounds hold him back from helping.
“Torin! You absolute bastard! Up here!”
The voice was unmistakable: soft and smooth but possessing the mildly nasal tone and relaxed speech rate of a typical Boodjar accent, Tam was calling to him. Torin peered upwards, cupping his hand around his eyes to block out the glaring sun. Despite them being so high up, Torin’s remarkably keen eyesight allowed him to discern the figures with ease. Sure enough, there was Captain Tam Fraser waving down at him. The jaeger was relieved to hear a familiar voice – even if it was Tam’s.
Torin’s eyes moved to the huge man and his retinue of armoured guards appearing on horseback behind Tam. The Hebiwan warrior was broad and impossibly tall, his steely gaze fixed on the shore as he brought his silver horse to a stop beside Tam.
Hayate Nakaya, Lord of Riften.
Still and daunting, the lord’s broad, towering form was clad in rich ebony robes, a wide silver belt around his waist, his ink black boots gleaming in the sunlight, and a long, thin sword sheathed on either side of him. His sleek white hair was drawn back in a low ponytail, but the lengths whipped behind him on the wind, glimmering silver strands dancing in the bright light. Despite his age, Lord Riften bore himself with the unshakable poise of one who had never tasted defeat.
Even from this distance, Torin could tell he was as fearsome and menacing as his reputation described. Torin had never met Hayate Nakaya, but he had heard much about him over the handful of times he’d visited Hebiwa in his life. The great city of Riften was located in the northernmost point of Hebiwa, far away from the capital in the south-western corner of the serpentine isle.
Rumours of Hayate Nakaya were whispered across the country. Torin had heard much about the Lord of Riften, the bastard son of the Hebiwan God of War, the favoured weapon of the Hebiwan emperor, Chikara … Seeing Lord Riften with his own eyes, Torin wasn’t so sure that the tales were as baseless as he had previously believed.
If the sight of Lord Riften didn’t send ripples of unease skittering through him, Torin would’ve laughed at the sight of Tam, no small man in his own right, dwarfed by the Hebiwan lord. Realisation struck and Torin’s stomach turned as he comprehended just how big that meant Lord Riften was.
Tam and Lord Riften’s differences didn’t stop at their height. In contrast to Lord Riften’s stoic, elegant, and wealthy appearance, Tam, beaming down at Torin, was wearing his aged, dark brown leather jerkin atop a creased off-white shirt along with worn black trousers and unpolished boots. Tam looked as though he, too, had been dragged out of the sea just hours ago. Locks of Tam’s dirty-blond hair blustered about his sun-scorched face, half-bound back with a leather thong, and his wiry, grey-streaked beard was unkempt and untamed.
Ever the ragged ship captain, Tam obviously didn’t think to dress in finer clothing considering his present company, but that was Tam in a nutshell. Tam didn’t pay any mind to other’s opinions on his appearance or actions. The old mercenary owed fealty to no man but his crew, and thus lived to his heart’s content, lordless and wild and free, changing himself for no one. That confident insouciance might’ve seemed like an admirable trait, but Torin knew first hand that Tam was just a stubborn old bastard who did things his way or not at all.
Lord Riften said something to Tam, who nodded in return before making his way down the rocky path towards Torin. Whooping and laughing, Tam skidded down the cliffside and strode over to Torin.
“Found you, ya daft bastard! We thought you’d killed yourself!” Tam exclaimed, his crooked smile bright and beaming. “Who in their right mind jumps off a ship onto a fucking kraken?”
“Nice to see you, too.” Torin winced as Tam clapped him cheerfully on the shoulder.
“Bet you’re not gonna do that again in a hurry.”
“Was hardly the worst thing I’ve ever done.” Torin grumbled through gritted teeth.
“Hardly the stupidest thing either.” Tam sneered. “Come on, you should meet Lord Riften. Luckily for you, we’ve already smoothed everything over with the big fella and proved we’re not an invading army from the west, so he’s welcomed us here as guests. Be on your best behaviour, yeah?”
Torin grunted in reply.
“Lord Riften looks scary, but he’s a good man. Don’t cross him, and don’t fuck around while you’re here. He’s not the type you want to be enemies with.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.”
“Atta boy, Torin.” Tam continued brightly. “It took us three days to find you. Dunno how long you’ve been washed up here for, but at least you’re not dead. Try to keep it that way, yeah?”
“Are there many others dead or missing?”
“Too many,” Tam’s chipper tone faltered. “Far too fucking many.”
The pair made their way up the treacherous path, gripping onto spiky tufts of marram grass protruding from ridges to keep their footing. Torin silently blundered along behind Tam, the Boodjaran’s statement hitting him like a ton of bricks. Had any of Tempest Rover’s crewmen fallen in the fray? Torin had seen many of the fleet ships destroyed by the kraken’s flailing arms, most of them strangers, but the men on Tempest Rover – so many faces from his childhood … Were any of them dead?
Torin shook his head, rolled his chapped lips together, and focussed on moving one aching foot in front of the other. He would find out soon enough, good news or bad.
The clifftop was teeming with activity. Villagers worked diligently alongside the force of newly arrived warriors. Lord Riften’s men were dressed in identical ebony robes with long thin blades sheathed at their hips.
Tam pointed out Lord Riften’s sons, Takeru and Yuta Nakaya. Both young men were tall and strong, lean in comparison to their father’s burly build, but equally as elegant and handsome as him. Takeru’s long, silky black hair was pulled back in a ponytail while Yuta’s hair was short and dishevelled. Where Takeru was encouraging all around him, helping the injured from the stretchers, a bright light in such a dark situation, Yuta was quiet and visibly worried, his lips drawn in tight line as he helped carry the dead to the wagon.
Women who weren’t tending to the injured were clutching their children, standing with the elderly eyeing the commotion from afar. A crowd of warriors and village men carefully lower another stretcher to the group below, ready to load with dead. At the top, the injured were being helped into a wagon pulled by a pair of fine chestnut-brown draughthorse mares, while the dead were respectfully loaded into another.
“We should be helping.” Torin shot Tam a pointed glance.
“First Lord Riften.” Tam nodded at the giant foreboding form not far from them.
The Hebiwan lord was just as intimidating up-close as he was from a distance. Lord Riften surveyed the jaeger grimly, deep lines set in his brow, around the severe line of his mouth, and at the corners of his cold smoke grey eyes. There were only a few stubborn black strands streaking his sleek white hair. The warrior was easily in his sixties, perhaps even older, but his size and the bulk of his muscles visible even beneath his sumptuous flowing robes proved that he was a force to be reckoned with.
It was laughable that Lord Riften was surrounded by a retainer, the battle-hardened warriors so much smaller physically than the lord they were there to protect. Just by the sight of Lord Riften, Torin reckoned the old lord could wipe out the entire group of warriors on his own with ease. But what did Torin expect from the alleged bastard of a war god?
“You’re the missing jaeger, Torin Maddox?”
Lord Riften’s deep voice was low and surprisingly smooth considering his intimidating appearance. Torin had expected Lord Riften’s voice to be gruff and gravelly, not silky and dulcet.
“Yes, my Lord.” Torin gave the lord a short bow.
“I hear you cast the killing blow.”
“I can’t be sure. I lost consciousness when it flung me into the waters after I struck it.”
Tam snorted.
“He’s being humble. He sliced the thing open and stabbed it dead, we all saw it.” Tam smirked.
Lord Riften nodded sharply.
“Get on the wagon with the other survivors, Maddox. They’ll bring you to the infirmary at Mournhold Castle. My healers will tend to your wounds.”
With that, Lord Riften tugged on the rein and nudged his heel into his horse’s flank. The great silver horse trotted through the crowd before breaking into a gallop the moment the way was clear, Lord Riften’s retainer following close behind.
“Atta boy, Torin. That didn’t hurt now, did it?” Tam grinned.
Torin wrinkled his nose, turned on his heel, and joined Yuta Nakaya moving the dead from the stretchers onto the wagon.
*
“WELCOME TO RIFTEN.”
The wagon rumbled up the path that wound along the side of Windcrest Peak. It had taken hours to haul the dead up from the bottom of the cliff, the process hastened by the help of the warriors. The moment the last body had been retrieved, Torin finally allowed himself to be ushered onto a wagon. Tam slid in beside him, much to Torin’s frustration. His relief to hear a familiar voice on the beach had worn off long ago.
Despite Lord Riften’s instruction, Torin had refused to leave with the injured, choosing to stay and help recover the dead before the tide came in. But for a few cuts, bruises, and aching muscles, Torin was fine, his body healing swiftly with every passing moment. Somehow the jaeger had managed to come out remarkably unscathed for the most part, evading broken bones unlike his comrades. He didn’t need to be rushed to the infirmary like the others.
The journey to Mournhold Castle, Lord Riften’s abode, was long but uneventful. Riften was two hours travel from where Torin and the others had washed up. All the villagers who had helped them up the cliffside were the inhabitants of a small fishing community nearby, the only community within an hour’s walk of where Torin and the others had appeared.
Winding around the final bend, the city of Riften loomed ahead of them on the top of the Peak, the city’s anterior surrounded by a thick stone wall. Backed against the cliff edge, there was no need for the city to possess a rear wall. After a brief stop at the front entrance, the entourage of warriors and dead were given entry into the city. A litany of booms sounded from the great wooden doors before they slowly creaked open.
Torin admired the charming vernacular buildings neatly situated around Riften in tidy rows, ribbons of smoke creeping through the reeds of thatched rooves. Curious faces peered at the parade of warriors and the wagons of dead from half-opened sliding doors. Some townspeople even stepped out onto their verandas to stare shamelessly at the procession.
Riften’s buildings and districts were meticulously organised by rank and occupation; every domain in Hebiwa followed the same structured design. The city’s merchants and artisans were situated in specially designated areas, while the religious and entertainment districts were located on the outskirts of the city. Warriors and guards lived in the town surrounding the castle, with the higher ranked officers living closest to the castle in much smaller but equally elegant estates.
The troupe stopped and started at a complex system of gates and courtyards, passing through a number of wooden palisades, baileys, and stone walls with ports to shoot arrows from. They crossed a moat before reaching the castle gatehouse. Torin was impressed by how massively protected Mournhold Castle was. It was practically impregnable! Weaving through the numerous walls and palisades would surely confuse an invading force. Torin wondered if the complex design was to protect the precious meteorite said to be beneath the castle.
Lord Riften’s expansive estate was rumoured to sit upon the largest deposit of meteoric iron in the known world. It was said that a meteor struck the world millennia ago, burying into the earth. As the landscape changed over time and people began mining for ore, the meteor became accessible.
Allegedly, when crafted into a sword, the meteoric iron was fearsomely strong. Rumour said that a faction of shamans mined and smithed the meteoric iron using sacred tools. With their tools, chants and rituals, the shamans were said to imbue the meteoric weapons with a special element harnessed from the mountain of Windcrest Peak itself, giving the weapons the ability to absorb mana from the user’s foe and strengthen the user instead. The name of the element was a secret, as were the names of the shamans and their order.
A famously difficult man, Lord Riften refused to sell the iron despite how rich it could make him, a vow all rulers of Riften were obligated to make and maintain. Lord Riften was the only man in Bodan to own a blade imbued with the element. The blade had been passed down through generations, said to be inherited originally from the God of War, the first owner of the sword – and, allegedly, Lord Riften’s father.
“You really believe all that?” Torin frowned, dubious of the fantastic tale Tam was regaling him.
“Sure, why not?” Tam winked.
The wagons passed through a final set of giant heavy wooden gates studded with iron. Hauled open by a team of warriors, the gates laboured open just wide enough to allow them through, revealing Mournhold Castle. Constructed of wood and stone and covered in white plaster to defend against fire, the fortress loomed ahead of them, as refined and intimidating as its owner.
The lavish, sprawling residence was made up of a variety of structures connected by numerous breezeways and corridors in a U-shape around a stunning formal garden and a huge, glistening pond. The largest of the buildings (second only to the castle tower) was the main hall from which the other halls and annexes branched off. These buildings included various reception rooms, Lord Riften’s offices where all official and administrative business was held, the living quarters of the domain lord’s family, as well as the kitchen, a prayer room, the library, the armoury, the garrison, and noble guest quarters.
