Beneath dark waters, p.3
Beneath Dark Waters, page 3
The most eye-catching building in the compound was the castle tower, the elegant, elaborately decorated multi-tiered keep with curved, tiled rooves. Positioned at the back of the complex, it loomed over the rest of the compound and the town below. It was a symbol of Riften’s power, functioning as command post during times of war, and in its basement was a prison.
Not connected to the castle were the lavatories, bathhouses, infirmary, two storehouses, stables, a barn and pen where goats bleated noisily, a henhouse, and a vast vegetable garden. A few enchanting pavilions peeked out from the luscious foliage of cherry blossom, gingko and palmate maple trees, embraced by flowering shrubs and charming flowers. Some were positioned in a shady spot gazing over the pond, magical-looking wooden garden rooms where one could snatch a moments peace.
Despite his protests, Torin was taken to the infirmary for an examination. Torin was stripped entirely but for a short swath of fabric to wrap around his waist before the healers whisked about him, revealing his immense, tattooed form in its entirety. The healers were unperturbed by the bodysuit of tattoos, instead they marvelled in Hebiwan and broken Sirinese at his minimal injuries considering all that had transpired.
After the examination, the healers called servants to bring in basins filled with boiling water, and soap. The healers had the servants scrub Torin from head to toe and wash his hair, his scalp crusted with sand and salty flakes of dried seawater. Deemed satisfactorily clean, the healers smeared medical salves over Torin’s injuries and dressed the more severe wounds in clean, fresh white bandages.
Torin was given clean clothes and straw slippers to wear: a thin black jacket that knotted shut at his side which he tucked into a pair of loose grey trousers that were tied closed with a small, elegant bow. Over the jacket, Torin pulled on a black robe that was loose and stopped midway down his thigh.
Feeling refreshed already, Torin quietly followed a servant along a neat stone path across the immaculately manicured courtyard and up the stairs to the main hall of the castle complex. Tables and benches had been brought in and lined the centre of the room in tidy rows, where the survivors of the kraken hunt were sitting. Many were dressed in their regular clothes, but a lot were wearing Hebiwan garments identical to Torin’s.
Torin thanked the servant in Hebiwan, (one of the few phrases he could remember), before striding through the hall. Torin paused in front of the main table and politely bowed to Lord Riften and the others sitting with him, his family.
Lady Riften was sitting on Lord Riften’s right side. She caught Torin’s eye: she wasn’t Hebiwan. Maybe she was from Albion, Aeferith, Vastrune, Boodjar, or the Sirinean Empire, but she was certainly not from Hebiwa. Lady Riften gave him a small, polite smile. Torin bowed politely before striding through the hall in the direction of Tempest Rover’s crew.
Reunited, Torin inspected every face and greeted every man, relieved to discover that none had been lost, though many of them were sporting blackeyes, bruises, cuts, and a few broken limbs. They shifted along the bench to give Torin a place to sit, far down the table from Tam.
“It honours me to welcome you all to Riften.” Lord Riften’s eyes moved slowly over the faces of the survivors. “Krakens once thrived in the Eastern Sea. They tormented Hebiwa, killed our fisherman, sea merchants, and sailors … They disrupted our sea trade, destroyed our ships, and consumed so much sea life that many of the fishing villages of Hebiwa were left starving. Even the bigger cities inland felt the pangs of hunger! The situation became so dire that the Emperor of Hebiwa ordered all thirteen Domain Lords to gather their fleets and slaughter each and every one of the grotesqueries.
“Our loss was overwhelming. Every family in Hebiwa bears the scars of those battles. Yet, we prevailed. It has been many years since I last saw a kraken, and I’m relieved it’s a dead one. Your sacrifice, like that of our relatives and ancestors, is recognised. We know the hardship that comes with taking a kraken head-on, and we thank you for slaying it.
“I know that many of you – including myself – are concerned about Prince Dagr. I have sent a missive to Emperor Chikara requesting he send his finest doctors to Riften to examine the prince. For now, Prince Dagr is receiving the best care that Riften can offer, as all of your wounded are. I spoke to Prince Dagr just an hour ago, and, although his wounds are severe, I am pleased to share that he is in fine spirits.
“Not only will your injured receive the best care that we can provide, but every one of your fallen comrades will receive a funeral worthy of their sacrifice at my expense to show Hebiwa’s gratitude. Upon your return to Vastrune, I intend to sail alongside your fleet to reunite Prince Dagr with his father, King Erik Stout-Heart, and inform the king of your bravery myself.
“Until then, please rest, eat, drink, and enjoy my home.”
3
A DAZZLING COLUMN of sunlight blazed through the gap where the sliding door had been left ajar. Unfortunately for Torin, the stream of light smacked him directly in the face, stirring him from his slumber. The jaeger buried his head beneath his pillow and tried to ignore it, but he couldn’t get back to sleep no matter how hard he tried.
Groaning, Torin sat up, rubbing his bleary eyes with his fists. His muscles and joints were stiff and sore, and a dull ache was radiating in the back of his head. His movements were slow, his limbs heavy, as though they were being dragged down by invisible weights.
The futon was comfortable, but Torin had slept better knocked out on the beach beside the kraken’s corpse. All through the night, Torin dreamt he was floating through an endless blackness, drifting and sinking. Just as he started to enjoy the sensation, the blackness rushed into his mouth and nostrils, suffocating him. Over and over, he jolted awake in a cold sweat, clutching his throat, desperately gulping down air.
Torin shook the dream from his mind and yawned deeply. Gradually, he wakened, recovering his senses. He peered at the other men sprawled across the futons surrounding his own. Each man was snoring away, sleeping off various stages of drunkenness, their bellies blissfully full.
Lord Riften had gone all out for the feast. There were platters heaped with delectable meats, roasted, dried, fried and stewed, dishes of shellfish, raw, dried, and cooked fish, and mountains of steaming white, brown, and purple rice. There were tureens of vegetables – bamboo shoots, red beans, yams, cucumbers, burdock, onions, aubergines, radishes, and more – that were steamed, raw, boiled, or pickled and seasoned with salt, broth, vinegar, oil or various herbs, even sweetened with honey or rice jelly. Guests were served steaming cups of green tea, flagons of ale and beer, and a variety of rice wines of varying strengths and flavours. One was smooth and sweet, another was robust and earthy, a third was tart and somewhat bitter, as well as a slew of others infused with various fruits. Torin was inclined towards the sweet rice wine infused with peaches.
Lord Riften had arranged lodging for the survivors when they washed up on Riften’s doorstep three days beforehand. The highest ranks of the fleet were allocated guest rooms in his castle. Soft-rush mats as thick as Torin’s thumb was long were set on the hard wooden floors with plush futons, pillows, and blankets neatly arranged atop each mat.
Crewmen were divided between the spare bunks in the garrison and rooms at inns in Riften city proper. Torin wasn’t sure why he had been assigned a futon in the castle, but he had a hunch that it had something to do with his antics that took down the kraken. The castle guests were provided straw slippers to wear inside the castle, and new clean clothes while their own were being washed and mended by his staff.
After making his bed, Torin pulled on his trousers and slipped the straw slippers on his feet. Noiselessly, Torin slid the bedroom door shut behind himself. To avoid disturbing the other men, he finished dressing in the corridor. A maid spotted Torin as he was tying his thin black jacket shut, her eyes as wide as coins as she caught sight of his naked torso where vibrant monsters roared in silence among vivid stationary battles.
Their eyes caught. Torin’s cheeks flushed pink, and the maid’s turned scarlet. Before the jaeger could open his mouth, the maid swallowed hard, turned on her heel and scurried away.
In most countries, tattoos belonged to ruffians, outlaws and bandits (and elves, but they were said to have been driven to extinction centuries ago). If someone in Boodjar, the Sirinean Empire, or Albion, for example, caught sight of Torin’s tattoos, they crossed the street or dashed away from him as quickly as they could. Some stared at him shamelessly or even avoided looking at him entirely, trembling with fear. Others would spit at his feet, repulsed by the images engraved into his flesh.
Tattoos were popular in the northern kingdoms of Jord, some countries in the southern continent of Bora, and a handful of nomadic tribes in the Sirinean Empire. Hebiwa was one of the few countries in the eastern continent of Tairiku that accepted tattoos – revered them. Here, most men possessed a few tattoos. Indeed, nobles and warriors, especially those of high rank, were expected to get tattooed. Those of the highest rank, like Emperor Chikara and the thirteen domain lords of Hebiwa, were tattooed from their ankles and wrists to their necks. Only their hands, feet, faces, groins, and a fist-wide river of space from their throats down their torsos were naked of ink. Many Hebiwan men were entirely tattooed this way by the time they were sixty.
A smile played on Torin’s lips. The maid must’ve been taken aback by the strong, tight, muscles of his abdomen and the vast, bulging plains of his pectoral muscles. Pleased with himself, his ego stroked, the jaeger held his head high and smirked to himself as he strolled down the corridor, following the delicious smell of breakfast. Mischievously, Torin considered talking to the maid next time he saw her.
The balmy morning sunlight poured in through the latticed windows and the partially open sliding doors that lined the rooms, corridors, and breezeways on the way to main hall. It was early judging by the gentle sound of slumber radiating throughout the castle. The dining hall was empty but for a few maids wiping down tables or sweeping and mopping the floors.
Finding a bench with a clear view of the doorway and a wall at his back, Torin seated himself. Within a few moments, a maid descended upon him carrying a tray laden with food. There was a bowl heaped with steamed rice, a dish of pungent, sticky, savoury soybeans, a plate of grilled fish, the skin perfectly crispy while the flesh was tender and flaky, a few dishes of pickled vegetables, rolled omelette, and a bowl of dark, salty broth.
Torin thanked the maid in broken Hebiwan as she set the dishes before him, but her lips remained pursed. Did he say the right words? He smiled instead to show his gratitude, but she was looking at the plates, not his face.
The jaeger enjoyed his meal in peace, wolfing down everything to the very last grain of rice and droplet of broth, his belly fit to burst. Torin wasn’t going to leave even a crumb of delicious food to waste knowing that it wouldn’t be long before he would have to set off back to Vastrune on Tempest Rover and suffer the rancid products that Tam passed as food. Torin had practically starved himself while they hunted the kraken, loathe to eat the foul hardtack, cheese so dry that it seemed to absorb all the spit from Torin’s mouth like ash, and the beef rations that were so salty, the crewman were gasping for drink afterwards. Torin didn’t know how Tam and the crew could stand to eat the awful foodstuffs, but at least the beer was good.
Others, both Hebiwan warriors and crewmen from King Erik’s hunting fleet, gradually entered the dining hall. They nodded silent greetings to one another as they found places to sit. Torin watched the clutch of maids dash in and out of the dining hall, serving the guests and cleaning up dirty plates with impressive speed.
When Lord Riften’s son Takeru came to dine, Torin noticed that he was served a different meal to everyone else. He received grilled fish, rolled omelette, pickled vegetables, and a bowl of rice porridge seasoned with onions, broth, ginger and salt.
Torin watched Takeru for a while. For the most part, Takeru ate slowly, his gaze flittering around the room. Torin chuckled when Takeru grimaced at a plate of sticky soybeans on the tray a maid was carrying as she walked past him.
Ever polite and warm, Takeru was attentive to everyone who entered the hall. Each person respectfully bade him a good morning or, in the case of the bleary half-asleep breakfasters, nodded or bowed in greeting to him. Takeru beamed at everyone in turn, even the maids. A handful of men seated themselves with him, and soon the table buzzed with conversation, laughter rippling through the group.
From the impression Torin had of him thus far, Takeru was bright and friendly. He always seemed ready to joke, and possessed a warm, unashamedly loud, contagious laugh. Torin wondered if it was difficult for Takeru to maintain such a sunny persona, especially so early in the morning. Briefly, he considered approaching Takeru but decided against it. Torin didn’t think that Takeru would’ve minded the additional disturbance, however, unlike the approachable Takeru, Torin wasn’t ready to speak to anyone just yet.
Torin set his eating utensils on his plate and rose to his feet, offering Takeru Nakaya a final nod that was returned with a chipper smile and cheerful wave. With that, Torin left the hall.
Pausing at the foot of the steps leading from the main hall to the courtyard, Torin stretched, groaning softly. Rubbing his bloated stomach, Torin regretted his gluttony, but he knew he would miss the feeling of fullness and the blissful flavour of delicious, perfectly cooked food when he faced his first meal at sea on Tempest Rover.
It was a beautiful, balmy morning. The storm from days ago had broken, replaced by clear blue skies and bright, though admittedly tepid, sunshine. The chill of winter whispered through Riften, but it would be a few weeks yet until the air would turn crisp and the season would cool entirely.
The fleet hoped to set sail long before then lest they would be forced to overwinter in the eastern land. Until then, there was nothing for Torin to do but wait – wait for an assessment of the fleet and have the damage repaired – wait for more bodies to washup on shore and help bring them up to land for their funerals – wait for Prince Dagr to heal up, well enough to sail.
It could be two weeks, or even two months of waiting … Torin hoped beyond hope that it would be sooner rather than later. Riften was beautiful, but being stuck here for the winter was not an option he relished in the slightest.
A small hum rumbled in Torin’s throat as he considered what to do now. It had been a long time since he had nothing to do. Mournhold Castle was expansive, but it would become suffocatingly crowded once all the other guests woke up. Torin couldn’t stomach the idea of being squashed between those walls with all those other people, crawling over each other like insects in a nest – it was bad enough on the ship. Torin resolved to stay out of the castle during the busier periods, preserving his sanity for the looming voyage back to Vastrune.
If Torin learned a few more phrases in Hebiwan, he could speak with the locals to see if there were any grotesqueries harassing a farm or fishing village that they wanted taken care of. Torin reasoned that he may as well be useful while he waited for Lord Riften and all the ship captains to figure out a plan between them. Torin was no politician, shipwright or carpenter – hauling bodies up a cliff and slaying beasts or supernatural entities were the only things he could do.
Torin decided he would investigate whether there was any grotesquery trouble in Riften at dinner. Perhaps he could even request a translator to speak to the locals. Thankfully, Tam and the crew of Tempest Rover had kept Torin’s belongings safe while he was washed up on the coastline. The moment Torin had been reunited with his trunk, he had made sure all his belongings and weapons were accounted for, meaning he was more than capable of hunting monsters while he was in Hebiwa. With his mind made up, Torin opted to spend the morning exploring Lord Riften’s castle compound.
Mournhold Castle was as elegant and magnificent as it was immense. The pond in the courtyard was connected to a long, slender stream that curled over the contours and slopes of Windcrest Peak from a crystalline lake a few kilometres from the castle. The pond was suspiciously circular insinuating that it was possibly manmade.
Or meteor made … Torin thought.
From the rumours swirling around Riften, it didn’t seem unreasonable to assume that the pond might’ve been caused by a meteor impact. Maybe the meteor impact that gave Riften its precious iron.
The pond was large but hardly a fraction of the size of most Hebiwan castle ponds that usually worked as part of the castle’s defence system. Lord Riften’s pond might be of use in an invasion, but for the most part it served as a beautiful, eye-catching addition to the luscious, well-manicured landscape.
There was a large building overlooking the pond, connected to the castle complex by one of many corridors. Two of the sliding doors were open, presumably to allow in a breeze, and Torin noticed rows upon rows of bookcases inside the room. Curiosity got the better of him. Torin continued around the pond until he found a stone pathway leading up to the room.
Upon entering the library, Torin was surprised to meet with a huge, life-size portrait of Lord Riften, his wife, Serena Nesse, and their five children, three sons and two daughters. Torin had only met two of the sons so far. Both daughters were married and living with their husbands in different cities. Torin hadn’t met the third son yet. The painting hung in a shining, black lacquer frame, gazing down on the rows of books neatly arranged down the centre of the room, illuminated by the light pouring in from the windows on either side of the room.
Torin ambled down the centre of the room, glancing at the thousands of spines in every colour imaginable, arranged neatly on the sturdy wooden bookcases. He found himself drawn to the portrait. He paused before it, taking in the harmonious colours, the trueness of the subjects’ expressions, the exquisite, seamless brushstrokes, and all the tiny details that made the giant painting so life-like. Torin glanced over the multitude of other, much smaller, but no less beautiful, paintings hanging in identical black lacquer frames surrounding the giant picture. Each and every one of them were family portraits.
