AXANDRJO THE SILVERNOSED VAGABOND

AXANDRJO THE SILVERNOSED VAGABOND, by C.D. Crabtree, artwork by Andrea Alemanno

 

 

Axandrjo of the Silver Nose often wore a disguise when traveling the slantwise length of the Shining Isles. His current glamor was a charmed wig of white wormlike curls peeking from beneath a dirty cowl, causing those he passed to think him a Chort from the caves of Trubal. Travelers on the road gave him a wide berth and none noticed the expediently blackened jut of silver that served Axandrjo as a nose. This was all to the good in the eyes of the Vagabond princeling since there were many throughout the Shining Isles and the jungled continent of Trubal who differed with the dark-haired wanderer about the rules regarding games of chance, private property, and the bounds of marital fidelity.

“Let us travel to the sacred temples of Dyrdyrek once more, for there is old blood there and the crypts whisper to me in the night.” A slithering voice wormed into his ear.

“Silence, Blood Serpent. Ana is not in Dyrdyrek, the moon is still waning, and you have eaten recently. Have we not just fled the Free Ports in incontinent haste due to your appetite? Even now bellicose Mungers of the town hunt for a Vagabond exile who collects debts in sanguine coin.”

“Then to the Accursed Isle and the low black galleys of Zauma to ply oar for jungled Trubal. I have many kin-creatures there and the feasting is good.”

Axandrjo flicked the dangling bauble hanging from his ruined left ear and the pulsating crimson serpent trapped within shivered. “Silence, Sccer, and sleep until you are awakened. Ana is in the far north. Were we not told so in thin whispers as you strangled Nothbard, former third mate on the Crimson Manta? Genn Beldokos may never know he was betrayed by an apostate crewman.”

“The blood of a gambler is not satisfying. Nevertheless, I sleep, O prince, to awaken at your command. Forget not your hungry servant!” And the bauble was quiet in Axandrjo’s ear.

The vagabond trudged onward, green cloak and dirty cowl hiding his identity, short staff with its hidden blade marking his steps. To all appearances he was simply a wanderer, plying his skills at divining while idly traveling through a placid countryside.

And indeed, a wanderer he was, exiled from one of the five tribes of vagabonds who weaved their way up and down through the city-states of the Shining Isles. Axandrjo’s disguise hid his unique visage from not only pursuing Mungers, but from his own folk, or so he hoped.

But Axandrjo did not doubt that if the Free Port Mungers chanced upon him they would quickly discover his identity. His silver nose and dark brooding features would give him away as a disgraced nobleman of the vagabond people, recently sought for corrupt dealings, and possibly foul murder. The Mungers showed short shrift to outsiders who flouted their laws and Axandrjo would soon find himself plunged into the glass tubes of the Justiciary and then shocked to death by captive eels to the shivering delight of the natives, who felt that justice should come with a meaningful aesthetic component.

Axandrjo picked up his pace. Near the coast a boat could take him up the calm central channel of the Shining Isles known as the Rill, thence through the Great Boom stretching between the sister cities Perdis and Porlyla, from there to storied Lagas with its squared towers, brown seawall battlements, and pirate’s sanctum.

In Lagas, Axandrjo would surely find his betrothed and free her from the pirate Genn Beldokos who had slandered him before the Gerontes of Mothya, and had watched as the Jewel of Ascension had been cut from his nose and the Tiger’s Eye from his ear. The pirate had then disappeared, taking Axandrjo’s beloved co-ascendent Ana with him.

The exiled princeling had replaced the stolen gem which identified him as a member of the Mothya Kindred while in the dark continent of Trubal, gaining a bloodthirsty serpent demon kept barely in check with a smattering of Vagabond magic and a mantra taken from a deceased jungle priest. He replaced the skin of his ruined nose with a silver sheathe, fashioned by a smith in Bandalil, who etched spells of protection down the nasal portions at no extra cost. Axandrjo thought the sigils somewhat gauche but they seemed to attract certain women of a more liberal libido and in addition, he felt that seasonal changes now affected his allergies less stridently. The silver nose, he felt, gave him a certain dash though it made him more easily identifiable.

After a few days of hiking, Axandrjo reached the swampy coast of Kertaras, a notorious destination for smugglers of every stripe. It was here that the exiled princeling hoped to find a watercraft to carry him northward to Lagas at the uppermost tip of the Isles.

Marching through the tall reeds Axandrjo sighted a mast bobbing over the turquoise water. Passing a few desultory reed huts he espied an elderly man repairing knots in a well-used fishing net, pausing at intervals to take a drink from the jug at his side.

“Pardon me, old fisherman, but would any of the dozen boats I see be for hire?”

“Hire for fishing? They do that every day but Aliada’s Day. I have fish for sale if you want them.”

“I mean can they be hired to take me up the Rill?”

“Boats can be hired.” The elder took another draught of his bottle and looked up, brown eyes squinting. “I travel up the Rill for marlin.”

“Can I hire your boat to carry me to Lagas?”

“Lagas? That will cost a kopos or two.” He hesitated, staring off into the distance. “But, I suppose it could be done. The Bluefin can take you up. It will take a round of the moon to get there.”

“I’ll pay the master of the Bluefin ten kopos.”

Feldel Mogranikos, for that is how the fisherman introduced himself, shook his head sadly. “The master of the Bluefin is notoriously difficult to deal with. Every week some criminal from the Free Ports comes to him asking for escape from justice. Often he hands them over to the Mungers in exchange for a reward and a prime seat at the eel tubes. Ten kopos would only insult him. Twenty might capture his interest. I would be glad to facilitate arrangements with him for an additional five kopos since I know him well.”

“Twenty is twice the normal passage price.” Axandrjo felt his heels twitch. How far behind were the Mungers with their lassos and clutchpoles? “But I suppose it could be done. Will you use your influence with him?”

“For another five kopos, with Metomos’ grace! Give the sign of Metomos to seal the bargain.”  Axandrjo reluctantly did so and the fisherman stood up, throwing on an expensive cloak made of dragon scale while Axandrjo watched askance. The garment shimmered in the sun.

“And now to the Bluefin!”

Axandrjo marched behind the fisherman past a dozen small fishing smacks towards a long wooden dock with a two-masted vessel at anchor, his face drooping with every passing boat, any of which could have carried him to Lagas. The old fisherman stopped before the largest vessel and turned to the gypsy saying, “Here is the Bluefin. A more famous catcher of fish, you’ll never see. Now pay over thirty kopos plus ten more for vittles-the Bluefin keeps a proper chef and you’ll find the meals more than satisfactory!”

“Forty kopos? I’ll give the twenty-five I promised and no more!”

“It is thirty for the passage and ten more for myself as a negotiating agent. The captain of the Bluefin does not normally take passengers of such furtively fugitive appearance. Do I see the Mungers approaching even now over the rise?”

“Very well, very well!” replied the princeling, eyeing the hills. The Mungers would take a half day to track him here, by his reckoning. He scanned the ship, noticing a certain shabbiness not apparent at a distance. Two gap-toothed deckhands slouched grinning, at the wales. “I see no captain.”

The elder drew himself up with a breath. “Welcome to Mogranikos village and Mogranikos Docks! I, Feldel Mogranikos, am the captain of the Bluefin and after much discussion within my mind have convinced myself that this is a good bargain. Furthermore, I am ship’s grubman by reason of my advanced age and poor back and this is the entire scope of my duties. You will have to fetch your bags aboard yourself. Forty kopos, if you please, sir vagabond!”

“I refuse to part with so much as a tinker. I will hire one of these smaller vessels which will suit my purse much better. Conduct me to their owner as quickly as may be,” demanded Axandrjo.

Feldel grinned unpleasantly. “I am the owner of every vessel you see here in Mogranikos village. The fees are quite reasonable. Furthermore, I see, just behind the hill, a squad of Mungers. They must be searching for a fugitive, as is their wont. For an extra three kopos I will tell them that a black-eyed gypsy tried to bribe me to carry him away from justice and I sent him away through the reeds.”

Axandrjo hurriedly paid out the clinking coins and was escorted to a dirty mate’s bunk above a hold stinking of rotted fish where he laid low until the evening sun spread a rosy blot across the broad waters of the Rill Channel.

 

***

 

The Rill glistened under the noon sun, wavelets catching the light in a flickering mosaic. Axandrjo, with a booted foot on the port rail, stood watching the grass dunes of Agras pass astern. Agras’ towers stood up behind sandstone wharves proudly boasting of a thousand years of trade in grain, pearls, and wine. To starboard, the flickering waves stretched seventy miles to the dry rugged coast of Dyrdyrek. The Gods had scattered the squabbling cities of the Shining Isles like kotabas chips over a watery board. One day he would visit them all and know their secrets, Axandrjo vowed to himself.

 

The exile brooded upon his condition. He touched the silver piece on his nose, running his fingers over the sigils etched there, and remembrance came over him: Mezkis, Justiciar of the Mothya Vagabond clan ripping the jewel from his ear and nose in the Ritual of Expulsion, the Justiciar’s grin as he showed Axandrjo the bloody trophies, Axandrjo’s cousin Rubard with a smile of triumph as he moved his succession plank into that spot formerly occupied by Axandrjo’s own board. In due time Rubard would now become the supreme leader of the Mothya vagabond clan.

Axandrjo ground his teeth. Gadding about the Isles would not restore his position in Vagabond nobility. Only rescuing Ana, betrothed to him by her father Yelgio Bourokostra, the present ruler of the Mothya Vagabond clan, could restore his fortune and good name: that and the return of the sceptre called The Welkin, the sign and symbol of rule over the Mothya.

No, reflected Axandrjo, much as the world calls to me I will have my revenge, my princess, and eventually my dominion. At dusk, he watched the coasts of the Shining Isles slide by through a grimy wedge window while eating the bait that passed for food on the Bluefin.

 

 

Two days later Feldel Granikos approached him. “You ponder the coastlines. You keep to yourself and eat alone on the quarterdeck or in your bunk. Is the food not satisfactory? True, it is mostly fish stew.”

“There could be more variety in the fare but my main concern is to reach the far northern isles as soon as possible.”

“Zashau is as far as we go, as I explained when we set sail. We dare not pass the Witch Isle through the Rill. For a further fee we can go to the outer ocean side and dock at Krystarkar, though the Snake Lords charge an exorbitant docking fee.”

“I will go through the Tatterwall Pass to Lagas from Krystarkar then. It is no harder crossing the mountains from Krystarkar as it is from anywhere else.”

Feldel cleared his throat and tugged on his long gray beard. “There will be a delay. We must pay a fee to pass the great boom of the sister cities Purdis and Porlyla. And the reason for this tax is the rich fishing just north of them. On a normal trip we would pay the toll and cast our nets for a week, returning with a rich catch to sell at each town depending on market prices.”

Axandrjo drew himself up. “In this case, you will cast your nets upon your return. You carry a premium passenger who is used to luxury accommodations but is compromising aesthetic concerns due to expediency.”

“Peace, Mothya Prince, I will honor our agreement. I am known for keeping my bargains.”

“How did you know I am of the Mothya Vagabond tribe?”

“You bear the tattoos on your back. I saw them when the buckets were raised for bathing. You have a disfigured ear from which a strange crimson jewel depends. You have a silver nose filigreed with mystical markings. The description of Axandrjo the exiled Vagabond prince is not unknown in the southern part of the isles.”

“Why, then, did you not sell me to the Mungers?”

Feldel grimaced. “Two reasons: first, they have not advertised a larger reward than you paid for passage, and secondly I prefer the Mungers keep out of my business arrangements.”

Axandrjo acknowledged this information with a short bow as Feldel continued. “The Bluefin is now docked in the village of Gredis-Under-Mountain. Havsel and Prug, my nephews, have gone to the local tavern-”

“-as they have at every port we’ve put into and it seems most of them were unnecessary stops which have taken up much valuable travel time.”

Feldel acknowledged the complaint with a shrug. “It may seem so. Still, after my only son Begsa died in a fishing accident Havsel and Prug, stupid as they are, have worked to fill his place and to keep my family, and indeed my entire village, fed. For those two, wine and the unfamiliar women of the tavern are part of the payment they receive for helping their aging uncle with his boats, otherwise, they would go to the cities to seek their fortune. But now it seems that they have landed themselves some troubles. Gredis-Under-Mountain takes it ill when foreigners play fast and loose at Juggernaut.”

“They were gambling at Juggernaut? Those dullards? That is a fool’s choice. Juggernaut is a game for gentlemen of intellect.”

“Such as yourself?”

“I am a gentleman and have an intellect. Do you doubt it?” Axandrjos fidgeted and stared over the masted forest of ships docked at the quay of Gredis-Under-Mountain. Above the timbered town, the yellow-green escarpment of Mount Gredis loomed hazily.

Feldel shook his head slowly. “No, I do not doubt it. Perhaps you are better at Juggernaut than my two nephews, otherwise, they would feel no need to cheat.”

“Again, there is no doubt.”

“Then you could certainly defeat Port Master Tarros in a match where they, even working together, could not.”

“If I cared to play him, undoubtedly so.” Axandrjo shook his head with wonder. Old Feldel’s mind must be wandering, he thought.

Feldel looked somewhat apologetic as he uttered: “Port Master Tarros asks that you remove your belongings from your berth as they are on his part of the ship.”

“Port Mast- what do you mean his part of the ship?” The vagabond jerked around to peer at the old man with dark eyes.

“Havsel and Prug lost their shares in the Bluefin to-”

“Port Master Tarros..” sputtered Axandrjo, face turning red.

“-and he demands the Bluefin place all passengers on shore since he wishes to travel in quiet simplicitude north to the Grand Juggernaut Festival at Krystarkar at the tip of the Shining Isles.”

Axandrjo gave a loud dissertation on the character and virtue of Feldel’s ancestral line. The captain of the Bluefin stepped back, raising his hands for peace. “Perhaps you could win back the shares that Havsel and Prug lost in their irregular play. I have already paid a hefty fine. Cheating at Juggernaut is taken quite seriously on this island.”

Axandrjo chewed the tip of his black beard. He might have trouble finding another ship, he reckoned, if he were put off the Bluefin. Time was of the essence if he were to find Genn Beldokos still anchored in Lagas. He watched with a sour face as along the dock came three men: Port Master Tarros and two burly assistants. Tarros, tall and walking like a man used to authority, stalked up to Feldel and greeted him curtly. “I am ready to board the boat. I am used to luxury so take note, Feldel.”

“I, too, am a passenger for the happy northern isle-” began Axandrjo.

“No more. I detest crowded accommodations. Denek, Plarg, remove the baggage of the former passenger..?”

“Axandrjo, Princeling of the Mothya Vagabond Tribe.” Axandrjo said imposingly, hoping to awe the port master.

“-this vagabond Shandero.”

“Axandrjo, sir, if you please.” Sweating, Axandrjo tried another tack. “I hear you won half the boat in a game of Juggernaut. Congratulations! Your fame with that most difficult of games has come to the ears of many.”

Tarros deigned to look at the man before him: an olive-skinned vagabond, dark of hair and beard, of average height, sturdy, with an etched nasal covering of silver. Dangling from his ruined left ear was a cloudy red jewel. The vagabond’s clothes were those of any well-to-do traveler, not fashionable but durable and of good design.

Tarros spoke. “I am champion Juggernaut player of the middle isles for the last three years and am accounted Junior Master grade by the Juggernaut Guild, though I have not yet joined that august body. For a fact, I am traveling to the Great Fair to participate in the Grand Colloquium and Tournament held by the Great Guild of Juggernaut players. I will join the guild there, win the tournament, and bring home the prize, which is one thousand kopos!”

Axandrjo ground his teeth as he bowed in respect. “Oh, to see such a thing! For me, only a humble Basilisk in the small Vagabond Juggernaut Guild, it would be such an honor!”

“ Do the Vagabond tribes play at Juggernaut? I had not heard such a thing.”

Axandrjo waved his hands in dismissal. “Oh yes. Of course, the game is held in great esteem but we could never hope to compare with the Great Masters of the Guild itself, or with talented independent players such as yourself. How will you keep sharp before the tournament? Do your thick-necked minions dance pieces over the board?”

“Those dunderheads? I learned every move they have ever thought of as a child.”

“I would be honored, Port Master Tarros, to play at Juggernaut with you on your trip to the Great Festival. ‘Your play must be as eating and drinking to you.’”

Tarros raised his eyebrows in surprise. “You know the writings of Grandmaster Zyorgas?”

In fact, Axandrjo knew only one or two commonly expounded quotes from the legendary Juggernaut master of old. He watched with slitted eyes as Tarros’ two assistants brought his belongings to the dock. “Careful there with my bags, my good dockmen. My purse is heavy with the silver I intend to wager at Juggernaut in Krystarkar. It would be sad were that heavy purse to sink beneath the docks of Gredis-Under-Mountain.”

Tarros gestured at his minions. “Place Master Axandrjo’s things in the lower berth overlooking the fish hold. He will be my practice partner for the voyage. Be especially careful with his bag of silver kopos.” The Port Master turned to Axandrjo. “You won’t mind giving up your berth? After all, I do own half the ship now.”

Again Axandrjo ground his teeth as he sketched a short bow. “Certainly not. One place is the same as another to me. It’s the game itself that leads me on.”

“Good fellow! Let us board the Bluefin!”

 

***

 

A week later the Bluefin, having passed the Great Boom between Purdis and Porlyla turned to starboard and entered the Southern Ocean. Axandrjo watched the ragged Tatterwall mountains rise from flat ground as they sailed north hugging the coast of Drakon Island, largest and most northerly of the long, slantwise, chain. The ocean waters were more choppy than the calm Rill and consequently, the aged captain spent more time at the wheel of the ship. Axandrjo glumly watched the coastline pass as he won kopos by the handful from Tarros. The Granikos nephews kept anxious watch for Wyrms on the starboard side.

“Well, you are emptying my purse at Juggernaut, Axandrjo. I wonder that you don’t apply for membership in the guild yourself.” Torros eyed the dark-haired vagabond across the strategic wreckage of the board.

“Mere luck, Master Torros. Your healer was trapped in the south tower while your gardener plowed an infertile row. And your guardsmen were overmatched by my own cavalier. Chariots just happened to be fortuitously at hand.” Axandrjo had grown careless. The whispered cantrip he used to blur pieces had possibly excited the suspicions of the port master. He raked Torros’ wager into his now bulging purse.

Shipmaster Granikos appeared. “Gentlemen, we are mere hours out of Krystarkar port. There is a gale approaching from the southwest over the Endless Ocean. I suggest you take cover under the awning while we run for the safety of the harbor.”

The three of them moved under the awning which whipped in the rising wind.  Havsel, Prug, and the port master’s two bully boys sullenly worked sails in the rain.

Time passed and the gale grew in strength. Finally, through the haze, Axandrjo was able to make out the gray shape of Krystarkar harbor, a series of flat warehouses stalked with dozens of masts. Behind the harbor grew the irregularly shaped spires of the city itself, with the black-scaled Tower of the Serpent Lords standing dark above it. Torros spoke to Deneg and Prug in soft tones. They glanced over their shoulders at Axandrjo and shrugged. Torros then returned to the dry space under the awning.

Granikos lit his pipe. “Sometimes Wyrms appear during outer ocean storms, stirred from the deep by the tumult. They rarely enter the harbor, though those in Krystarkar consider it a divine sending when they do.”

“I wonder whether the merchants anchored there feel so blessed?” Axandrjo mused wryly.

Torros turned narrow eyes at Axandrjo. “Why do you not enter the tournament in Krystarkar, Axandrjo? Is it because you fear your trick will be discovered?”

Axandrjo barked laughter. “The Juggernaut Guild would never allow a vagabond to enter their tournament. As for my tricks, they are merely the gleanings of a few treatises written by Juggernaut Masters of old coupled with a bit of luck. I’m sure you’ll put them to good use when you win the tournament, Portmaster Torros!”

Torros leaned forward to stare Axandrjo in the face. “I allowed Shipmaster Granikos to keep his cheating nephews on board since they paid a fine in the form of surrendering their shares in this ship. If they had used sorcery to cheat then things would have gone the worse for them.”

Axandrjo laughed nervously once again. “Sorcery? Why, everyone knows that the Guildmasters in Krystarkar have tell-tales against that, usually in the form of a changesign gem. No one would dare to-”

Axandrjo stopped short as Torros placed a glowing green gem on the juggernaut board before them. “Do you mean a changesign gem such as this one? Every prospective guild member carries one, I believe.”

Torros signaled and the vagabond felt Deneg and Plarg bulk behind him. With a slash, his purse was cut from his belt. Whirling, Axandrjo kicked Plarg between the legs. Plarg made a surprised glurp and bowed to the rocking deck. Deneg pulled a wicked dagger from a wide belt while Axandrjo grabbed his own walking staff from beside the seat. He felt Torros behind him reaching around his chest, gripping the staff to try to wrest it from him.

“You’ll find out what we do to cheaters, vagabond!” Torros roared into his ear.

Axandrjo twisted the stick and thumbed the hidden chock. A two foot long slim spearhead shot from the far end to skewer Deneg’s blade hand. Deneg screamed in pain and surprise and dropped his weapon. Torros, similarly surprised, loosened his grip and Axandrjo leaped aside, scattering the pieces of Torros’ prized jade juggernaut set across the deck as he did so.

The ship crossed Krystarkar mole and entered the harbor leaving behind the worst of the churning waves. Granokos shouted orders at his two slack-jawed nephews, then over his shoulder to the pugilists under the awning.” Please, gentlemen, please. Let us have peace!”

“We’ll have peace when this dark-eyed vagabond is sleeping at the bottom of Krystarkar harbor and not before,” bellowed Torros, who had drawn a slim blade. Plarg, recovering, menaced Axandrjo with a blade of similar design while Deneg, face twisted in hate, retrieved his lost dagger with an unwounded hand. Now Axandrjo parried thrusts and blows desperately as he backed toward the port wale of the ship.

“Sccer! Awaken!” Axandrjo was loathe to release the demon. In such a situation as this Sccer might conceivably kill everyone on board in a frenzy, including Granikos and his kin. He eyed his purse where it lay under the table. He would be punctured in ten places if he attempted to recover it.

The wayward princeling watched with alarm as Torros prepared his men to rush in for a final encounter. The Vagabond Prince made his decision. “Sccer! Awaken at once and slay me these men! It is time to feast!”

“I dare not, O Prince. There is a demon in the water. He may devour me.”

“What do you mean a demon?”

“Who are you calling a demon?” Torros mistakenly retorted.

A hundred yards behind Torros a shape arose. Wide and tall as a tower it jutted towards the darkening sky, covered with scales the size of tavern tables. A screeching roar issued from its toothed maw. As all turned to look Granikos uttered an epitaph of doom: “A Wyrm has entered Krystarkar harbor.”

The Wyrm crashed down and massive waves tilted the Bluefin at a steep pitch. Axandrjo tumbled backwards into the cold gray water. Over his head Torros, Plarg, and Deneg flew, weaponless, to land somewhere in the wet behind him. Axandrjo came up, sputtering salty water and saw the Bluefin right itself while Granikos and his nephews clung to the netting.

Axandrjo knew the Wyrm was somewhere under the choppy waters. In a blind panic, he swam for the shore, grasping only his staff as an oar. From the city came the pealing of bells along with shouts from panicked sailors on boat and dock.

The Wyrm breached again and Axandrjo was carried toward the dock by large swells. He pulled himself up a thick mooring line with aching arms. Far down the docks, he saw the bedraggled forms of Torros and his companions climbing a pier piling to stand sopping on the boards. They stared at the vagabond with venomous eyes and began moving in his direction. Behind the three the Wyrm breached once again and smashed into a dock, breaking it like an egg. A swish of the creature’s finned tail capsized two cargo ships. Men began yelling and fleeing in every direction. A fire broke out from a crushed warehouse on the end of the targeted pier. Axandrjo took the opportunity to pump his tired legs away from the angry portmaster of Gredis-under-Mountain.

 

***

 

Axandrjo regretted he could not stay to explore Krystarkar, home of the Serpent Lords who claimed descent from the great Wyrms of the Endless Ocean, but a stolen ham, some equally contraband eggs and the possibility of pursuit by the angry port master of Gredis-Under-Mountain necessitated a hasty departure from the largest city in the Shining Isles. Now, he stooped over a low fire making a hearty breakfast before traversing the northern pass through the ragged Tatterwall mountains. He peered at the snow-capped peaks before him: sharp monsters of stone, scattered over the land as if dropped from a god’s sack. Fortunately, the pass was easily navigated, being paved with stones all the way to Lagas. The lords of Krystarkar profited handsomely from the ill-gotten pirate trade of Lagas through subtle taxation of cheap goods in the form of discounted trade.

It took Axandrjo a week to walk the distance to Lagas. Each evening while cooking a meager meal over a chittering fire the vagabond relived the scenes of his humiliation: Mezkis’ smirk as he ritually ripped the Jewel of Ascension from Axandrjo’s nose and the Mothya tribal ring from his left ear.

“Where is Ana?” Axandrjo had screamed from the wheel of expulsion. “She is gone. Genn Beldokos has taken her along with the Welkin!”

Mezkis droned on, intoning the Ritual of Expulsion . “..and your ancestors revile you and you are plunged forever into darkness in the Endless Ocean and darkness will be your cloak and though your high status save you from death so death will surely come in darkness alone..”

“Genn Beldokos…Genn..” Axandrjo passed out from pain.

The images faded into mists and the exiled Vagabond prince stared into the dying embers of fire before him.

One evening, not long after climbing the foothills of the Tatterwall Mountains to the west of Krystarkar, Axandrjo was startled by the appearance of six men at the edge of the small fire that established his transitory home.

Axandrjo stood, grasping his staff. “Portmaster Torros. I see you have bought company.”

“Gredis-under-Mountain maintains a close relationship with the Krystarkar Merchant Repository. They advanced a rather nice sum of over five hundred kopos. More than enough to cover your thievery but you must still make amends for that and for the indignity you have shown to the guild of portmasters. Should you escape and think to take passage at any port in the Shining Isles be assured that the guild will smell you out.”

Torros signaled and the hired men spread around the vagabond, cutting off any escape. One bald man of diminutive stature stayed by Torros’ side. Deneg and Plarg stood not far away, seething with a desire for revenge against the upstart who had cheated their master and wounded their pride.

Axandrjo retreated a few steps but stopped when he saw men creeping from behind in the forested dusk behind him. Black trees stood as lone sentinels of warning. “This need not be. I only took kopos, not lives!”

There was no answer from the silver dusk. Axandrjo gripped the hilt of his dagger. “Torros?”

Dead leaves crumbled as men moved forward. Sweating, Axandrjo knelt and touched the ring hanging below his ear. “Sccer! Awaken, there is danger.”

He could not know what mood the blood serpent was in, nor could he know whether the thing could be contained once released. But Axandrjo could not defeat so many and so he tapped the dangling ring again, repeating the binding cantrips of the Trubal shaman forcefully. “Sccer, come!”

The earring glowed a deep orange-red and Sccer appeared as a fiery serpent of light before him, thick as a fallen limb and twelve feet long. Sccer lay on the ground before him pulsing with Otherworld vigor, scintillating scales visible in ever-changing patterns of fire. “There is no demon here, Sccer. Slay me these men and feed.”

The Blood Serpent coalesced below the ring and moved gleefully forward. In the crisp, late light of dusk, Sccer moved a zigzag path of death. The hired men of the forest screamed as the blood demon slithered amongst the leaves. They thrashed with their blades to no avail. Sccer ate their essence and Axandrjo felt ill. Not for the first time did he question the effect upon his own soul of using a blood demon. He chanted the rhyme of containment over and over, shivering as he did so.

A blue glow wombed the thrashing Torros and his bald companion. The few surviving assassins ran incontinently through the woods.

“I cannot eat him.” A crimson maw rebounded from the Portmaster. Sccer grew fiery red and his esoteric vigor increased.

“Return, Sccer. He must have a protective device. Return!” Axandrjo met Torros’ glare of hatred, then the port master disappeared into the surrounding woods.

The Blood Serpent returned to the captivity of the earring and the vagabond breathed a sigh of relief. Sccer was a dangerous weapon that he did not know how to discard. Besides, the thing had saved his life several times.

Axandrjo felt drained. “We will leave here and make camp further on.”

“Master? I am satiated for now.”

Axandrjo ignored his demon and walked away.

 

***

 

Lagas rambled before him, a town spread over a dozen rocky inlets with buildings ranging from rickety driftwood shacks to square towers of dark stone. In the center of this long, curling thrust of humanity was a mass of buildings, two and three stories high, triangled by three eccentric castles, one at each of the largest harbors, abodes of the Three Families, pirate clans who rose to power some five hundred years ago. These ruled Lagas and provided a haven for illicit trade across the Shining Isles and the Northern Wastes. Axandrjo could see half a hundred masts projecting like a dead forest over the gray waters circling the town.

His heart slammed a drumbeat in his breast: Have I come too late? Have I been too long? Has he sold the Welkin? Where is Ana?

Axandrjos knew that open inquiries within the town would mark him and that any inquiry about the Red Manta would bring a cutthroat crew upon his neck. Therefore he kept a liberal quietude, as if an ascetic priest on pilgrimage wandering along the docks seeking subtle gossip.

Soon he found what he sought from a local dock hand.“That fine corsairing vessel has cast anchor at Curtios north dock and is taking on provisions for a long voyage south, I hear. Are you a supplier? You look like a Trubal man but you have not the odor of a Trubal man.”

Axandrjos drew his wig closer. “I am a loader. I load supplies for a daily meal.”

Alongside the long dock at Curtios north rested the Red Manta. Directly below the squat, square tower of the Curtios clan she floated, fully laden for her next voyage. The crew was mostly absent, sharing a last night of drunken revelry at the closest tavern. The vagabond exile knotted his fists as he viewed the fine ship. Somewhere close by were Genn Beldokos, the unwilling captive Ana, and the precious Welkin, Sceptre of Ascension.

After further inquiries, Axandrjo was referred to the Lucky Mast where he found the crew and captain of the Red Manta engaged in the time-honored occupation of every crew of reivers on the eve of a voyage. Keeping his disguise and tying a black patch of cloth over his nose, Axandrjo entered the Lucky Mast. Insinuating himself between two of the crew he watched the assembled Mantas as they sang their way into a drunken stupor. Now, Genn would never recognize Axandrjo, nor would his reivers.

The vagabond prince addressed the drunken sailor on his left. “Greetings, bold sailor. What brings the celebration? A lucky catch?”

“Lucky is the word, dockman. I’ll pour you out some good wine of Krystarkar. You are a brave seaman like us all though your boots only tread the steady dock and not the rocking deck.” The Manta crewman laughed at his own wit, then hiccuped a toast.

“The loader’s guild salutes you. If not for your ships where would we be?  But what of your captain? Whither does he fare after such a lucky catch?” Axandrjos watched Genn Beldokos where he sat next to black-haired Ana at the high table.

The captain of the Red Manta was half drunk with an arm flung around Axandrjo’s red-cheeked betrothed. The female half of the heirdom to the Mothya vagabond rulership tipped the last of a large cup of wine and whooped with joy at the bawdy ending of a sailor’s song. Axandrjos frowned. How she must suffer having to pretend joy in the face of her brutal captors, he thought, and he began wondering as to possible places where the Welkin might be kept.

“Our captain and his vagabond queen celebrate a coming union, which will place her squarely at the helm of one of the five Vagabond tribes of the Shining Isles. Then, my strong-backed loader, we will all retire and live like princes among the black-haired beauties of the Mothya tribe. Half the year we will spend reiving in the north and the other half we will spend in the south at the summer vagabond enclave near the sultry city of Smerdash, singing, drinking, and wenching on the whitest beaches of the Sundrenched Isles!” The pirate hiccuped in time with his revelations and a fruity alcoholic must penetrated Axandrjo’s nasal patch.

“But, how is he to gain such status? The vagabond tribes are notoriously wary of outsiders.”

The pirate leaned over, nearly falling off the rude bench. He wagged a knowing finger in Axandrjo’s face. “We return a great treasure to them, far south on the white-beached jungly, shores of Trubal, where they gather for their ten-year crowning festival. No, not the girl though she’s a treasure in herself. It’s a treasure that was stolen by the girl’s previous intended groom. He’s been turned out of the Mothya tribe in disgrace but Genn Beldokos will return what her intended has stolen and be rewarded. At least that’s what the vagabonds will hear.”

An arm grabbed the pirate and dragged him away. “Klomav, you wag tongue like a merchant’s wife. Keep it occupied with this so it doesn’t wag itself to death!” A jug’s cork was stuffed in Klomav’s mouth and he scrambled away at the behest of two strong shipmates to fall in with an impromptu sailor’s jig.

Axandrjo sat stunned. The reiver chieftain would take the Welkin, the sceptre of the Mothya, back to the tribe’s annual conclave on the white sands of Trubal. There he would present it, along with Ana, as a return of stolen property, property reportedly stolen by Axandrjo himself, the former heir to Mothya rulership. Genn would wed Ana to his evil cousin Jubard and be rewarded with a life of leisure by the new ruling prince. The disguised exile ground his teeth once again in vexation. He left the Lucky Mast to plan his revenge upon Genn Beldokos.

On the way through the tavern door, he was all but knocked from his feet by Havsel and Prug, nephews of the elder Granikos, captain of the Bluefin fishing lug.”Stand aside, you, thirsty men have arrived!”

Eyes wide, Axandrjos passed between the two and proceeded to the docks where he found the Bluefin, much the worse for wear, anchored next to the Red Manta. He noticed Feldel Granikos limping down the gangplank. The elderly captain gave him the greeting of the day. “Good day, Axandrjos, Prince of the Mothya! I see you survived the attack of the storm-crazed Wyrm.”

The so-named vagabond prince rushed the captain of the Bluefin to the rail. “How did you recognize me?”

“A certain shiftiness of manner and elusiveness of gait. I clasped my purse close to my side until I knew it was you.”

Axandrjo made a sour face. “Quiet your voice Granikos or you doom me. How did you arrive at this pirate’s haven? I thought the worm had finished the poor Bluefin.”

The elder Granikos spoke more softly: “The Bluefin is made of sterner stuff. Three hundred-year-old adlaswood is hard to sink. She tips, she rights, she rides high on the crest.”

“But how did you come here? And what happened with Port Master Torros and his pin-headed servitors?”

“Bah! They survived dripping wet, as you did. We docked amongst the wreckage and Master Tarros failed to win any prize at the Juggernaut Guild competition inasmuch as the honorable guild master Krampzos was killed by the flailing sea-beast along with half a dozen others while at their cups in a seaside tavern. The games were canceled, and it’s a great loss they tell me, though I don’t play at Juggernaut and could care less.”

“And Torros?”

Granikos gave a snaggle-toothed grin. “Assumed dead by myself at any rate. Or ship abandonment under duress, which revokes any claim he might have on the Bluefin. It revokes your claim as well, prince black hair.”

“My concerns are elsewhere, Granikos. Still, I did win half the title back from Torros-”

Granikos cackled softly. “Try your case in any court, O prince, and send me the verdict. Torros will find a similar verdict should I get the Bluefin home to the Free Ports. We rounded great Drakon Island since we heard every Wyrm on the banks of the Great Reef south of us was stirred from sleep by the storm. I thought it best to round north and down again through the placid Rill. Torros must find another outlet for his disappointment. The BlueFin will not sail north of the Great Boom again for a long while. Now, where did those dullards my nephews get to? You’ve seen them, one has a head like a carrot, the other a turnip.”

Axandrjo caught his arm as he pushed past. “Wait. I may need passage again. Did I say again? I meant a continuation of an interrupted journey. After all, I contracted to be brought here but through perverse circumstance, and with much discomfort I-”

“-your grievance lies with Port Master Torros. Why not take it up with him? Still, with a renewed remittance perhaps something could be arranged.”

The two grimaced through a series of negotiations as Axandrjos stood dripping on the deck. He glumly paid a half dozen kopos filched from townsmen and farmsteads during his journey. His purse was now as flat as a limfish. “Now, we must leave quickly but I have some business to take care of first.”

Granikos nodded assent. “We are victualled. Repairs will wait until we are home due to exorbitant costs. Once I find my nephews we will be ready to sail at any time.”

Axandrjo boarded the Bluefin and watched the deck of the Red Manta carefully. Only a few crewmen manned the deck watch, scowling at their ill luck in choosing losing lots. Two slept in a pile of ropes while one kept a loose watch over the gangplank. After a few minutes of observation Axandrjo, in his guise as a rather scabrous dock loader, approached the gangplank cautiously.

“Is this the Red Manta?” he enquired of the slit-eyed pirate before him.

“Who is asking, lander?” The pirate cocked a not very inquisitive eye at the black-haired vagabond.

“Genn Beldokos contracted with the Loaders Guild for provisions enough to get the Red Manta to the southern continent. I am here to count hold capacity before we bring them aboard”

“Oh, he did, did he? I hope he’s told you how many mouths are on board. Now, he often gets the count wrong so whatever he’s told you just add twenty to it. We’re a hungry lot and sailoring is hard work.”

“I’ll pass your word on to the dock master, sir. Now I’ll just go below and have a look.”

“The lower hatch is open.” The sailor pointed to a dark hole past the door of the captain’s cabin. Axandrjo reluctantly walked past the door and clambered down the ladder as the sailor composed himself atop the rope coil once again for a nap. Axandrjo wasted some time in the hold before surreptitiously raising his head through the hatch. Observing the closed eyelids and slow rise and fall of the sailor’s breast, he then made short work of the simple door latch and entered the private quarters of Genn Beldokos. A few chests of clothing and tableware were made fast in the corners and a large desk occupied the center of the room. At the rear a door beckoned and Axandrjos, reasoning that Beldokos would never leave the Welkin in his outer cabin, entered that door as well.

A sudden thought assailed Axandrjo: what if a true representative of the Loader’s Guild should appear? He moved with a new sense of urgency.

The reiver’s bed-chamber was smaller but sumptuously decorated, with carvings from the Lost Isles, Smerdash, and grotesque wooden fetishes from Trubal fixed to the walls. Silk awnings from distant Wa covered the bedposts. Rather decadent for a pirate, thought Axandrjo. His dealings with the hard-faced Genn had given an impression of unflinching manliness and spartan rigor in the single-minded pursuit of wealth and power.

Axandrjo searched drawers and chests and a small closet where he found a variety of female costumes and a chest of cosmetics with the unmistakable design of the southern parts of the Shining Isles. The vagabond turned his head to observe the bed itself. There were two pillows. Clearly, two occupied the bed.

The fiend, thought Axandrjo, clenching his fists. He has taken Ana as his concubine, probably at threat of death. The details of his betrayal went through . Axandrjo’s mind once again. He had contracted with the captain of the Red Manta to transport Murri spice to the Free Ports where they would fetch a top price. True, the spice was taken from the communal storehouse of the Mothya clan but that mattered little since Axandrjo reckoned that his time as ruler would come within a few seasons anyway. The current ruler was old and ailing, fading with each round moon. Once Axandrjo was ruler one-fifth of all Mothya goods would belong to him by right. His betrothal to Ana was ritualized over the loud objections of his cousin Rubard, long a critic of Axandrjo’s performance as Tribal Procurator and who proclaimed himself the more suitable match. Axandrjo confided his plans to Ana with the suggestion that he use the profits from the illicit sale to buy a fine yacht as he intended to celebrate their ascension to rulership with a cruise up the Rill in proper style, docking at each city for fine cuisine and collecting choice objects d’art. Ana eagerly agreed to help but whispered that Axandrjo’s cousin Rubard had come to her with a plot to steal the Welkin, sceptered symbol of Mothya authority, and blame it on Gen Beldokos and by revelation, on Axandrjo himself.

“He knows about Beldokos? How?”

Ana shrugged. “I don’t understand these knotty dealings. My mind is a simple one, caring only for your safety and reputation.”

In the end, Ana convinced the princeling that he must take the Welkin to safeguard it from his cousin’s greedy grasp. One moonless night she brought it to him from her father’s bedside. Shortly afterwards Axandrjo found himself confronting his cousin Rubard, Justiciar Mezkis, and a dozen Mothya Clan guards in the secret harbor where the Red Manta rode at anchor. Just before they arrived Beldokos’ men loaded the spice but attacked Axandrjo’s own few men and seized Ana, along with the Welkin. Axandrjo, betrayed by both his cousin and the reiver Beldokos, surrendered at swordpoint. After suffering the Ritual Expulsion he was pushed into the sea on a raft at the southernmost point of the Shining Isles. By luck and a change in the wind he washed up on the broad white shores of the dark continent of Trubal, all but dead, and after a series of adventures there returned to seek the restoration of his rights, his Ascension to the rulership of the Mothya vagabond tribe, and Ana. It was true, he mused, that he only needed to recover the Welkin to prove his innocence. Once he found it he need not stay to face certain death trying to rescue his betrothed, but his cousin’s foul play galled him. He would rescue Ana from the clutches of Genn Beldokos and serve a cold revenge upon the pretender Rubard, with Ana at his side to view his triumph.

While he pondered his options he heard a shuffle and a clunk. Someone had entered the outer cabin!

Quickly hiding behind a curtain Axandrjo waited. Soon, the door to the bedchamber was opened and the person walked in. Axandrjo peeking from behind the curtains saw Ana, red-faced and sloe-eyed with drink.

Axandrjo stepped from behind the curtain, removing the wig and raising a hand before the girl could scream. She recoiled and her black hair whipped around as she saw him.

“Ana! It is I, Axandrjo!”

“But..you are dead!” Her eyes were wide.

“I survived, my sweet. They could not kill Axandrjo. I am unconquerable and will have my rights as ruler of our clan. Come, quickly, where is the Welkin? I have a ship waiting. We will flee to the Mothya encampment at Smerdash and present it to the Assembly. Rubard and Metzis will rue the day they crossed Axandrjo the valiant, the cunning, the-”

He did not finish because after a glance at the door Ana flew at him, wrapping her arms around him and pressing her soft curves against his body. She smothered him with kisses saying, “I thought I’d lost you!”

Axandrjo answered between kisses. “I know the pirate forced you. Perhaps, after my ascension, I’ll send some assassins to kill him. But first the Welkin. Where is it?”

Ana placed a hand behind her and then clasped him again, even more tightly. From the jewel dangling under his ruined ear a voice whispered. “O worshipful Master, a sharp tooth seeks your heart from behind!”

Axandrjo twisted and found the Mothya princess about to plunge a curved dagger into his back. He grasped her wrist and twisted until she doubled over and dropped it to the floor. Her face showed not shame, but anger and pain.

“Why did you return? In a day we were to sail to Ascension Beach and return with The Welkin in triumph! I will marry Rubard and Genn will become Tribal Procurator by virtue of his deeds. You were supposed to be dead. I told Rubard to make sure-”

A sudden realization came to the princeling’s mind. Ana had betrayed him to Rubard and Metzis and bribed Genn Beldokos to betray the deal with himself. Now Beldokos’ sly insinuations at the time made sense.

“But why Beldokos? You could have been Hiera of the Mothya tribe.”

She sneered. “And I still will be. But I wanted to travel, to plunder, to live a different life than as your wife. I wanted adventure and you wanted a soft comfortable life wielding the power that rulership of the tribe would give you. And I wanted Genn.”

Still gripping her wrist, Axandrjo chuckled sadly. “Well, I have nothing but adventure now, thanks to you and your lover. But, you would marry Rubard when you want to be with the pirate?”

“Rubard does not care for women, as you know. He cares only for power, prestige, and riches, like yourself. You made love to me but you don’t love me. You only love those things, too, power and riches. Rubard will have his rulership and I will have Genn.”

Axandrjo realized she was right. He was using her to vault to rulership and since she was the daughter of the present Heir it was the only path, along with possession of the Welkin. He pointed at the knife where it lay on the deck. “And is that a reason to stab me in the back while making protestations of love?”

She shrugged. “It was worth a try. “

Now Axandrjo stood smolderingly angry, yet he kept his head. Sccer had warned him and saved his life, probably out of concern that should anything happen to his master while he was captive in the jeweled earring he would be imprisoned for an interminable spell and starve from lack of victims, trapped by the stolen cantrip.

Axandrjo knew his time was limited, Beldokos was sure to return shortly and old Granikos might sail at any moment and keep Axandrjo’s clinking kopos. The exiled prince could wait no longer.

Grabbing his staff from where it lay on the bed Axandrjo gripped Ana’s arm firmly and placed the end under her jaw. “Do you know what this is?”

“It is a stick,” she replied sullenly.

He pointed the end away from her face and flicked the release. She gasped as two feet of slim steel projected instantly forth from the tip. He reversed the catch and the blade slid back into the hollow shaft. Then he placed it under her chin once more. “The Welkin. Now.”

Her eyes rendered a sober judgment and she nodded mutely. Slowly she went to the bedhead, rolled down the coverlid and removed the pillow. Behind the hinged headboard she removed a section of false wall and from the cavity behind it, an iron box. She handed him the box. “Genn has the only key.”

Axandrjo saw a strong and complex lock on the iron box and knew he did not have time to pick it. Slowly backing away he thrust the box inside his shirt and wrapped part of his sash around it. It felt heavy and unwieldy but it did not hinder his movements. The Welkin was a short sceptre, covered with jewels and ancient symbols, about eighteen inches long and could, theoretically, fit inside the box.

“What will you do now? You cannot open the box so easily.” Ana looked at him defiantly, then her expression changed and she cocked her head to the side. A look of triumph stole into her beautiful green eyes and she said: “But why don’t you ask Genn? He is here and his men will soon follow.”

Axandrjo heard a shuffle and stomp on the deck above. A low deep voice sounded but no words could be heard. He looked about the room. As much as he wished to revenge himself upon the reiver he must escape with the Welkin in order to complete his aspirations. Then he could wield all the power of the Mothya warriors and assassins to track down Beldokos and finish him in some suitable manner. Behind him a window jutted over the stern of the Red Manta. A plan took hold in his mind but before he could attempt it the door opened once more and Genn Beldokos walked through.

Ana threw herself behind him screaming “Kill him! It is Axandrjo, alive!”

Beldokos, obviously inebriated but with first-rate fighting instincts, drew his blade and came at the vagabond prince. Axandrjo drew his own dagger and held the staff out to ward the blow. The cut missed by inches and he backed towards the window.

“Genn, he has the box!”

The reiver drew back for a moment, grinning. “Does he now?”

“You deceived me once before Beldokos, stealing my rightful sceptre and robbing me of my reputation. You won’t do it again.”

The pirate chieftain smiled a cat’s smile and answered. “Twice, princeling. Remember, I took your betrothed too.”

Axandrjo moved, fencing to ward the strikes of his adversary while trying to lure him into alignment with the hidden blade in his short staff. Genn, for his part, was trying to maneuver the vagabond away from the window. Axandrjo could not be sure Ana didn’t have a second weapon and was not about to expose his back a second time.

“Mank! Llandro! Come quickly!” Beldokos turned his head to project his deep bass voice and, Axandrjo, taking advantage of the pirate captain’s brief inattention, shuffled back elbowed the thick-glassed window in its heavy leaden frame. Thankfully, it was not locked and it swung open to the salty air of the docks. Beldokos, seeing his trapped quarry seeking escape, redoubled his efforts, giving Axandrjo no time to leap from the opening. The master of the Red Manta called his men once again and Axandrjo, knowing he would be outnumbered within moments, scrambled to get close enough to leap forth. The sword of the reiver slipped past his guard and a thump signaled a deadly thrust to the center of his chest. Axandrjo, slammed by the thrust, staggered back a few feet as Beldokos rushed on, sure he had delivered a deep wound. As Axandrjo fell over the sill of the window he projected the staff and pressed the release catch. The spearhead shot forth and stabbed deeply into the reiver’s shoulder. Beldokos gasped and fell back. Axandrjo fell backwards into the briny water. The last thing he saw was the fury and triumph in the face of his former lover, then he was sputtering in the waters below the Red Manta.

The spear staff floated next to Axandrjo and he grabbed it out of habit. Above him, through the open window of Beldokos’ ship, the angry sounds of drunken pirates sounded. Axandrjo swam under the filthy dock. He put a hand to his chest and felt a dent in the iron box. It had saved him from the reiver’s thrust. Without a thought for that chance occurrence. Now, Genn’s men arrived and pelted the wood above him with drunken arrows and furious shouts.  Axandrjo swam to the other side of the wooden dock just as an empty cask shattered above him, sending splinters into the frothing water. Just on the other side of the dock the Bluefin rested at anchor and the princeling swam with the last of his strength to the far side of the Bluefin, away from the murderous crew on the Red Manta.

“Feldel Granikos! It is I, Axandrjo! I wish to board now!” Axandrjo sputtered in the salty water below the wales of the Bluefin.

Two bemused and drunken visages appeared above to pout at him: Havsel and Prug, liverstruck by the liquor they had absorbed at the Lucky Mast. “Who be you in the water there?”

“Axandrjo, you idiots! Cast the net down. Call your uncle. We must weigh anchor immediately.”

The hoary head of Feldel Granikos appeared above him and peered down. “Bring him up. He is a passenger in good standing aboard the Bluefin.

When Axandrjo gained the deck Granikos queried, “Why are you casting that tarpaulin over your head, Axandrjo?”

A muffled reply ensued: “Because the pirates of the Red Manta are looking for me. Now, cast off, Feldel!”

The Bluefin made a drunken departure and hove for the central Rill. “I still don’t understand-”

Axandrjo cast the tarpaulin from his head. “I am still half owner in the Bluefin. I suggest that your crew hop to the sails and make all speed.”

Granikos stared at Axandrjo as if he’d risen from the dead. “ I am sole owner of the Bluefin, as your honor must know.”

Axandrjo ruffled in his bag and held out the sopping parchment he’d saved in his codpeice for the master of the Bluefin to peruse. “A half share in the Bluefin.Won at Juggernaut from Portmaster Torros.” He continued smugly. “I presume there will be no further discussion of passenger fees or cuisine. I demand the best aboard.”

Granikos narrowed his sharp brown eyes. “Certainly, your half-interest in the Bluefin is legal and I will be happy to accommodate your dietary requests. Nephews! Return the Bluefin to port! We must stock up on culinary excellences for the benefit of Prince Axandrjo, who now owns half of the boat. Pay no attention to the pirates making a careful search as we dock. Speak not a word, in thy bibulous state, of Master Axandrjo’s presence aboard.”

Axandrjo gnashed his teeth yet again and addressed Granikos. “Let the Bluefin continue on its course away from the harbour. I will eat whatever grub you have aboard.”

When the Bluefin was sufficiently far from the furious anthill of reivers combing the docks the exile went below and pulled the dented box from his shirt. It had saved his life and delivered to him the prize he had longed for. Eagerly, Axandrjo set about picking the lock on the box. It did not move. In a fury he banged on the lock until, realizing it would not succumb, he thrust his head aboveboard and borrowed a thick-pommeled dagger from Granikos. This he used to dash open the lock, while above him Granokos was heard detailing the cost of the dagger and demanding its return forthwith. “The dagger is an heirloom worth three kopos. Now that I think on it I paid six for it. Six!”

Axandrjos smashed the box open to find, not the handsomely jeweled Welkin but a patch of papers, maps, and keys. Tricked again, he thought in disgust: That is three times, Genn Beldokos!

Setting his foot upon the first rung Axandrjo began to climb dejectedly to the deck of the Bluefin but suddenly the boat tipped to the side, flinging him from the ladder into the opposite wall. He slid down, head spinning while the Bluefin righted itself. Smaller waves jostled the boat again and the vagabond heard Granikos yelling above. “Up sail at once! Hurry you fools!”

Axandrjo stood unsteadily as the captain of the Bluefin thrust his face into the opening above him. “On deck, sir princeling. The Great Wyrm has followed us into the Rill.”

Axandrjo was startled. No large Wyrm had been seen in the Rill within living memory. He scrambled up the ladder to witness crushed masts and loose spars across the Curtious North docks. The Red Manta was caught sailing away from the docks and her rudder and aft mast were gone but the pirate ship floated close enough for Axandrjo to see Genn Beldokos standing broad-footed on her deck. Beldokos shot a death’s head grin at the Mothya princeling and Axandrjo delivered an ancient, one-fingered sign of discontent in return, which caused the pirate chieftain to laugh.

A slithering voice whispered in Axandrjo’s ear. “Master, there is a demon in the harbor.”

“This I know, Sccer.” A sudden thought assailed him. “Do you know why it has followed us here?”

“Because of the curse, O master.”

“What curse?”

“The one placed upon you by my former master Llarro Bebonois when you took me from him.”

Axandrjo stared at the Rill. Suddenly the Wyrm breached again and Axandrjo’s teeth chattered in his head as its shadow fell over the Bluefin.

“A curse,” he muttered as the wave washed over the deck. Axandrjo barely saved himself from being carried overboard. Then he ran to help the Granikos nephews raise the sail.

“A curse! A damnable curse!”

“What did you say, Axandrjo?”

“Nothing. Let’s get the Bluefin well away before the Wyrm finds us. Pray to Aliada that it wrecks the Red Manta or we’ll have them to deal with later.”

Axandrjo shook his head. Why did nothing ever go his way, he thought, as the sail billowed and they cut through choppy waters.

“Back to the beginning again,” the Vagabond Prince grumbled in a low voice. “Back to the beginning.”

Over the disturbed roil of the harbor the Wyrm breached once again, then turned from the wreckage of the dockyard to swing a toothed maw and bulbous, angry, eyes towards the Bluefin where it was just making way into the flow of the Rill. From the wheel, Feldel Granikos swiveled his gaze from the Wyrm to fix them accusingly upon the Mothya princeling.

“You did this, vagabond! Somehow, you-” the aged captain of the Bluefin was stopped when the Wyrm breached once more and began to move towards the ship. Clearly, the sea creature was single-mindedly in pursuit of the vessel. Granikos sputtered, then roared at his two nephews who were unfurling sail lazily. “Sail, you cod biters! Sheets to the wind! Or do you want to be Wyrm food? You too, sir vagabond!”

Axandrjo ran to the mainmast to pull on the rope. Just as the wind filled the sails and the current of the Rill caught the Bluefin he glanced through the flapping cloth. He was leaving the Welkin behind. All his hopes and dreams were riding on the Red Manta and a pursuing monster stood between them and himself. He felt a momentary anger. Then Prug grunted out a warning. “It comes.”

Axandrjo pulled harder on the rope. The wind picked up and for once the blustery god of the air was on the exiled princeling’s side. The Red Manta spun thrice, nearly swamped, and the Wyrm, confused, dove for the depths.

If we make it to the Rill the current will take us away before the monster surfaces, thought Axandrjo. As the current caught the Bluefin and moved them away from danger the exile pondered his fate. What to do, he mused? Return to find the Welkin and exact revenge upon Ana and Genn? Run for shadowy Trubal to find the sorcerer Llarro Bebonois and remove the curse so the great Wyrm would not follow him? Axandrjo would decide later. For now it was enough that every league put them further away from the maw of the Great Wyrm.

 

________________________________________

 

D. Crabtree was raised on a steady diet of Fritz Leiber, Jack Vance, and R. E. Howard, with a slice of Clark Ashton Smith for dessert. Creating exotic cultures and populating them with a variety of dubious characters is his joy. He has had one story published in Cirsova magazine (Summer ’23) and another in the Pilum Press anthology Death Flex. He lives in the mountains of north Georgia with his wife, children, four ducks, and an English Shepherd (the canine type, not the human type) where he labors, writes, and practices Renaissance swordplay. Comments are welcome at cdcrabtree@protonmail.com.

 

Andrea Alemanno  is a compulsive illustrator  who fills the line spacing, preferably at 300 dpi.
He’s  from Italy and loves to move into a new city searching for inspiration. In every city,  he constantly keeps drawing.  Now, 3 decades later (and a little bit more), he is  still drawing and learning something new everyday.  He loves the traditional touch into a digital tools world so uses pencil, ink and digital colors to give life to his artwork.  Sometimes he shares his knowledge with wannabe illustrators.  His work has been selected for several awards and he’s currently working for Italian and international publishers.