Rowena Daniells - The uncrowned King

'I couldn't ask for a better man at my back,' Byren said with a smile, 'in ten years time.'

'I wish I was ten years older now!' Leif muttered.

'And I wish I was well. If wishes were fishes we'd never go hungry!' Byren sheathed the sword. How was he going to defeat the overlord, when Palatyne held Rolenhold and his army rode across the valley terrorising the farmers?

He needed allies. He needed the support of warlords from the five spars. True, they had sworn fealty to his father only this midwinter just passed, but he couldn't appear before them weak from an injury and alone. They respected strength. It was his father's strength that had kept them in line.

He needed time to heal and gather loyal valley men. Then Overlord Palatyne would regret he had ever set foot in Rolencia.

The second time Fyn woke it was to the deep roll of the open sea and unremitting nausea. The hatch above him was open and he could see the silhouette of a small man against the cold blue light of the winter sky.

'He's moving. Lift him outta there, Jaku,' the man said in the trading dialect of Ostron Isle. A large arm reached in, caught Fyn by his tied hands, hauled him out and set him on his feet on the deck as if he weighed no more than a puppy.

Fyn's staggered a few steps before recovering his balance. His head spun. It was mid-morning and the sun was blindingly bright, sparkling off the sea. He stood between two masts. Great sails rose high above him, their horizontal ribs of fine, flexible wood creaking as the wind buffeted them petulantly.

He could invoke Halcyon's blessing and ask to be returned to port, but that would only work if this was a Rolencian ship, and he feared they were Ostronites. He squinted up at the mast, high above, to identify the ship.

It flew no flag and his skin went cold.

He studied the sailors. They wore a variety of clothes from the attire of a poor fisherman, through spar warrior, to Ostronite. He was out of luck. They were mercenary scum. Little better than the Utland raiders they resembled. Desperate, vicious men, they had committed crimes that had led to their banishment from the civilised lands of Rolencia, Merofynia and Ostron Isle. Calling the Utlands home, they roamed the sea flying false flags to get near their prey, honest merchant ships.

How had he ended up on this vessel? He remembered fighting that Power-worker and failing.

It made no sense.

Fyn searched the horizon. He could see the snow-capped peaks of a distant land, though whether it was one of the Utlands, the tip of a warlord's spar or the mainland of Rolencia, he could not tell.

The ship's timbers creaked as the vessel rode the troughs and peaks of the waves. The deck moved under his feet. Fyn failed to compensate. He fell to one knee, jarring his body and making his head ache.

'A fish outta water, Bantam.' The one who had man-handled him so easily grinned. He spoke the Ostronite trading dialect with the accent of a Merofynian.

'Empty your guts on the deck and you'll have to clean it up,' Bantam warned, then grabbed Fyn's bound hands and undid the knots with a practised flick of his strong, thin hands. Sailor's knots. 'You understand?' he asked in Ostronite, then switched to Rolencian. 'Or do I have to speak the tongue you sucked from your mother's tit?'

'I understand.' Fyn spoke Ostronite. His mother had made sure he was conversant in the languages of the three great powers. He rubbed his wrists. The ship slid into another trough. His stomach recoiled. With a groan, he staggered past Bantam to the side and leaned over to throw up.

The big one laughed, not unkindly.

Eyes watering, Fyn wiped his face and turned around to confront the older man. Now that he had a closer look, Bantam was not old, just worn by a sailor's hard life. A faded scar puckered the corner of his mouth, giving him a permanent half-grin, but his eyes were cool and calculating.

All the while, Bantam used the tip of a wicked little dagger to clean under the nails of his left hand. Despite his casual air, he watched Fyn closely. As he put the knife away his jerkin gaped open and Fyn saw a small tattoo amid the scars over his heart.

A butterfly… no, an abeille. Relief hit him, for this was the symbol of Ostron Isle. Part bird, part butterfly with beautiful double wings, this Affinity beast was as industrious as a bee, which was why the busy merchants of Ostron Isle had adopted it.

Fyn felt his knees tremble with relief. He might not be amongst friends but at least he was not amongst enemies. They were not lawless men at all, but daring sea-hounds. Sworn enemies of the Utland raiders, they hired themselves out to defend merchant convoys. And, on occasion, they formed fleets to hunt down the raiders. In this case, the booty they took remained their property. They had to be brilliant sailors, every bit as tough as the Utland raiders they hunted.

Unless… the tattoo dated from a time before this cocky little man was banished from Ostron Isle.

Fyn studied Bantam and took a gamble. 'If you're from Ostron Isle, what does the Merofynian Power-worker have to do with you?'

'I wouldn't know anything about a Power-worker. We're sea-hounds serving under Cap'n Nefysto, aboard the Wyvern's Whelp. Count yourself lucky, lad. You could have been press-ganged by the Merofynian navy and made to serve their king,' Bantam told him. 'Little Jakulos here ran off. Show the monk the way King Merofyn paid for your loyalty, Jaku.'

The giant slipped the shirt off his massive shoulders revealing a tattoo of a jakulos on his chest. These Affinity beasts were elegant, winged sea-snakes. Clearly, this was not the big man's real name, no more than Bantam was the other's. Although, the little man suited his assumed name better, reminding Fyn of a sprightly rooster as he strutted about the deck.

Jakulos turned. This time he revealed multiple scars, some older than others, crisscrossing the muscles of his broad back.

Fyn blinked. He knew life at sea was hard, but knowing it and seeing the evidence were two different things.

'As a Merofynian mariner you'd get a copper a week and a whipping for objecting. As a sea-hound you get a share of the booty and tipped overboard for objecting,' Bantam grinned, amused by his own wit. 'We lost some men after a disagreement with an Utland raider, so there's a place for you with us. What'll it be, monk?'

Fyn looked into Bantam's hard eyes and knew the man would have no compunction tipping him overboard.

It could be worse, at least he wasn't dead. It seemed Halcyon had been watching over him last night. The Power-worker must have dumped Fyn down by the wharfs, where he'd been picked up by the sea-hounds. Press-ganging unlucky men and boys to serve on ships was common practice. The only part Fyn did not understand was why the Power-worker had not turned him over to Palatyne, but he put that puzzle aside for now, grateful to be alive.

The ship dipped and Fyn's head swam. He gave a heart-felt groan.

'You'll get your sea legs in a day or so,' Jakulos told him, cheerfully, his deep voice rumbling. He gestured to a bucket of slops. 'Now, make yourself useful and be sure to throw downwind.' He laughed.

Despite his stomach's revolt and the thudding in his head, Fyn made no move to pick up the bucket. He had to return to Rolencia. Byren needed him. He had been a fool to go after the overlord alone.

Clearly he was not an assassin, but he could still help his brother. He might even risk using the Fate to find Byren, since it seemed the noble Power-worker, although not an ally, was not his enemy. 'I must return to Rolencia.'

'Is the little monk giving trouble, Bantam?' a newcomer asked, speaking Ostronian with a cultured accent.

'Nothing I can't handle, cap'n.'

Fyn turned. Captain Nefysto was not much older than Lence. Tall and spare, his skin was browned by the sun. Long black hair was pulled back and threaded with onyxes that winked in the sunlight. Three silver wyvern earrings dangled from his right ear. Sailors were notoriously superstitious, and it was said that silver wyverns, worn through the ear or around the neck, would protect one from attack.