Tattered

Chapter 9

The sea lay at the western edge of the kingdom, a few leagues' ride from the castle. We left before dawn, an escort of about a dozen soldiers accompanying me and Breca to our destination. The sky soon turned orange and pink with the rising sun, casting an ethereal glow on the soldiers in their reflective armor. A breeze whipped through the trees, carrying the faintest scent of salt and brine. I gripped Tan's reins tightly and urged him to go faster.

Men and women were already bustling through the streets with the day's chores when we arrived in Freyson. The largest port town in Geatland, Freyson contributed much of the silver and goods that kept the kingdom afloat. Father often remarked upon the prosperity it brought, ever wistful for more coastline towns like it. I didn't quite share his opinion. The Freyson thanes were a spoiled, arrogant bunch who liked to think that wealth and prosperity were a proper replacement for honor and glory. Perhaps that's why I'd always had an aversion to the place.

Dozens of ships were docked in the harbor, and we got a good look at them as we approached the wharf. I knew nothing of shipbuilding, but even I couldn't help but marvel at the magnificent structures. Each boat was simple but strong, as they had to be to weather the treacherous seas. Thick planks of plain oak or mahogany somehow melded together to create something with a purpose, something vital. I decided that someday, when everything was settled once more, I would come back and learn how to sail myself.

"Your ship, my lady," Bjorn said gruffly, nodding towards the ship docked just ahead of us.

It was a sleek longboat, with shining wooden sides and rows upon rows of powerful oars with which to battle the waves. From the mast waved a large white sail emblazoned with the valnknut, the ancient symbol of Odin that father had long ago adopted as his sigil. The three interlocking triangles were meant to represent the fear, glory, and madness that Odin could either give or take away at his slightest whim. I felt myself swell up with pride at the sight of it.

The figurehead of the boat was the most beautiful of all. The head of a dragon, expertly carved to appear as if the creature was alive. It's teeth were bared in anger, it's maw open as if it were prepared to breathe fire at any enemies that lay ahead. Yes, this ship would certainly do very well.

Against my better judgement, I glanced over to the next mooring where Breca was assessing his own ship as I was mine. The ships themselves were nearly identical, I noticed with relief, with the exception of the figurehead: at the front of Breca's ship was a snarling wolf, just as intricately carved as my dragon.

Breca, who had been surrounded by ships all his life, did not look quite so impressed. I frowned. Perhaps I wouldn't have been able to tell a longboat from a knarr, but it looked impressive enough to me. Breca quickly turned and caught me looking. He winked and then boarded the ship, where men were hustling about trying to prepare for disembarkment.

With a huff, I did the same. The ship was already fully functioning with a crew who were currently readying the sails along with everything else. Until we landed on Danish soil, I was the captain in name only. Once we arrived, I would become acting commander of these men, but until then, due to my total lack of experience sailing, another man had been appointed as acting captain.

I started walking to port, searching for him, trying to take note of the crew members as I went. Most of the men were large, with beefy arms strong enough to row the oars. One man had his blond hair twisted and tied with braids into a hair style that I couldn't say suited him well. Another, rolling barrels to the cargo hold, had a glass eye in his left socket. Perhaps he hadn't wanted to propagate the sailor's stereotypical eyepatch.

Not all the crew were oarsmen, however. There was a lean man with a bald head sternly ordering the others to their tasks. He must have been the boatswain, the man in charge of directing and organizing the crew. Towards the back, a cabin boy was sulkily sweeping the floor, keeping his face low. His curling brown hair hung low in front of his eyes, doing a good job of hiding his face. He looked familiar somehow. I paused, narrowing my eyes to examine him closer. Seeming to sense my stare, he lowered his face even further and tried turning his back on me.