Chapter I- Dragon of the Waves

21^st of Magra, Year 819 of Imperial Calendar (IC)

 

Sage Levethyian stood stoically at the bow of the Sea Dragon, letting the cool afternoon mist caress his skin as he gripped the gunwale against the steady roiling of the waves.  Gray clouds matted the sky overhead, broken only by scant patches of blue where the sun had sought to pierce the shroud.  In the distance lay the coastline and the expanse of Ne’mair that seemed to devour the countryside around it, its massive walls and towering spires still blanketed by the snow of the previous evening.  Small slabs of ice floated between the ship and its destination, insignificant in size but still reminders of the unusually harsh winter that had ravaged the country.

Whereas several blizzards had torn through the streets of Ne’mair, nothing worse than a steady drizzle had plagued the travelers onboard the Sea Dragon.  Sage’s clothes had been thoroughly soaked for days on the open-aired vessel, and his long black hair hung sodden about his face, sticking to his moist skin and the week-old beard he had been too busy to bother shaving.  The man had been cold and miserable for so long he had nearly forgotten what it was like to be warm and dry, but he was made as hearty as steel and never let that discomfort show on his impassive features.

The Sea Dragon was a cargo ship constructed by master shipwrights in the neighboring Imperial province of Vystarim, where seamen had spent centuries perfecting their art while sailing the narrow fjords and rocky coastlines that characterized the country.  Though she was shorter than her lithe warship cousins, with a more bulbous hull creating extra space for transporting goods, she nevertheless sailed like a Vystarin’s dream, cutting through the waves with the ease of a hot knife through snow.  The overlapping oak planks that comprised her hull�"held in place by iron rivets�"seemed to undulate in the water as she moved with the waves instead of fighting stiffly against them. 

Her whole frame creaked in the fierce wind, flexing at her bow and recoiling at the stern with each wave as if constructed of well-limbered muscles instead of wooden planks.  A single mast rose from the center of the Sea Dragon, easily removable if need be from where it locked into the kerling, displaying a large woolen sail that billowed in the wind and caused the colorful dragon motif to writhe and snap as if alive. 

Oarsmen busily heaved and hoed to the rhythm of a hide drum, the oars cutting the water and propelling the longship forward at a mile-eating pace of nearly ten knots.  With the oars working like tiny legs and the prow decorated with the coiling head of a dragon, the longship resembled the fierce serpent that was her namesake as she devoured the distance toward her destination.

Pristine and picturesque even beneath its blanket of white, Ne’mair loomed large in the distance, seeming to swell and grow with each sweep of the oars that carried the Sea Dragon forward.  Had she been a raiding ship like in the days of old, with speed on her side and a fleet at her back, her appearance on the horizon would have given the surprised victims little time to mount a defense.  Only a short time after she came within sight of the shore, the Sea Dragon would have emptied her contents, a seething mass of warriors streaming across the unsuspecting citizens like a plague; looting, burning, and slaughtering mercilessly before disappearing from whence they came.  The men would have rained down terror and destruction to make their ancestors proud.

However, the Sea Dragon was a transport vessel, and the days of raiding and pillaging were rare now to the point of being little more than memory.  Her cargo now was nothing more than men, though the bare-chested oarsmen with sweat glistening on their muscular frames and axes or swords stashed at their feet could still strike fear into the hearts of even the bravest warriors.  Sage glanced over his shoulder at the activity behind him, his startlingly blue eyes settling on the miserable passengers huddled together in the middle of the ship. 

They were paying travelers, merchants all with their fine clothes and soft hands, and followers of the Riyvarian All-God who quivered as much in fear of the rough-natured heathens surrounding them as from the cold sea air.  Sage could not help but crack a smile at the boisterous captain who towered over the frightened merchants, shouting at them in a good-natured tone that nevertheless made the land dwellers cringe.

“Ye lads picked the time o’ year fer sailin’,” Sage heard the big man cackle, his sizeable girth shaking beneath his snug fitting leather jerkin as his whole body rumbled with laughter.  “Don’t get no better than this fer tellin’ a man he’s alive.”

The merchants shrunk away from the imposing man and the wicked axe at his belt as if he were a snake poised to strike, which only made the captain’s laughter rumble louder.  Though the soft-featured merchants had paid considerably for the journey, travel aboard a Vystarin longship would not have been their ideal means of transport.  Small in comparison to the massive Imperial galleons and open to the elements without a hint of luxury, the longship was never intended for men accustomed to lives without hardship.  Nevertheless, the Sea Dragon was the most well-equipped vessel for a dangerous winter voyage down the rocky coast of Vystarim and into the port of Ne’mair, and her hearty crew perhaps the only men crazy enough to attempt it.

Shaking his head in amusement at the captain’s propensity for teasing the weak-willed merchants, Sage turned his attention back to the expanding coastline before him, where the docks of Ne’mair and the miniscule figures scurrying along them had already come into view.  Sage shielded his eyes from a sudden stream of sunlight from the west that broke through a patch in the clouds to his left, and thus did not notice the captain’s approach until the big man stood at his side. 

The giant was so tall that the top of Sage’s head barely peaked at the man’s shoulders, his chest as broad as a barrel of mead and arms thick enough to pass for legs on most men.  A thick beard as deep a red as his tangled hair hung nearly to the captain’s belt, and he was often seen tugging at it absently as he talked.  Sage looked up into the big man’s eyes, which still twinkled with mirth that only awaited a new outlet to be unleashed.

“Greetings kinsman,” the captain bellowed, and Sage could sense a jest coming before the big man continued to speak.  “Ye is a bit puny fer a Northman, methinks.”

The man tugged on the single braid running down the center of his beard as he laughed, clapping Sage roughly on the back with his other hand.

“But ye sail like a true Vystarin,” he admitted.  “What did ye say yer name was?”

“Sage Levethyian, though I did not mention it before.”

“Strange name,” the captain pursed his lips thoughtfully, obviously searching for another jibe.  His eyes lit up when he found one.  “Mayhap yer folks thought to make ye a skald when ye turned out so small.”

“Perhaps they did indeed,” Sage could not help but join in the big man’s infectious laughter.  Though he was no more than three inches shy of six feet, such a stature was considered diminutive among the tall inhabitants of Vystarim, and he had become accustomed to height jokes over the years.

“If only I had lived up to their wishes.”

“Aye, ye carry yer steel like a man that’s knowin’ how to use it,” the captain observed proudly.  His was a culture where heartiness and skill in battle were traits the gods admired above all else.

“We pray only for enemies of skill and a warrior’s death to lift us on high,” Sage recited an ancient Vystarin mantra as his left hand strayed to the short sword that hung at his waist.  A wicked one-handed axe hung opposite on his right hip, and his eyes strayed to the rows of shields bracketed on either side of the ship as if remembering battles gone by.

The captain roared with laughter that shook his entire body, his craggy face split by a wide grin as he clapped Sage on the back again.

“That’s a good lad.  The old ways may yet live in ye,” he said with the same pride he would have shown his own kin.

Sage smiled at the compliment and pulled his hand away from the sword hilt as if noticing it for the first time, scrubbing it unconsciously on his dark red tunic, which had become an even deeper shade due to the moisture.  The tunic hung low passed his waist, where it was belted in place by a wide strip of dark leather that bore the weight of sword and axe.  It was trimmed in golden bands of intricate design that ended just below Sage’s elbows.  Beneath the base of the tunic�"which trailed halfway to his knees�"Sage’s attire was completed by loose-fitting tan trousers and dark leather shoes that rose no higher than his ankles.

“Tis a fine ship you have here, captain,” Sage observed after a moment, causing the big man to beam with gratification.

“Aye, the finest o’ vessels, but tis a shame she’s stuck carryin’ such sallow-bellied land-lovers,” the captain sighed regretfully with a disapproving glare at his other passengers.

“A shame indeed,” Sage agreed.  “But who else would be so much fun to criticize?”

The captain laughed again at that and nodded vigorously, still staring at the disheartened merchants, who had noticed his attention and were trying to huddle even deeper in on themselves.

“Frightened children, those men; doubt they could lift an axe between ‘em, and easy targets they is,” he commented.  “Mayhap too easy.  It gets old houndin’ me own men at times, but at least they got gall enough to defend themselves.”

As if to emphasize his point, the captain wheeled on his crew and began bellowing insults and orders in a booming voice that could have stopped a raging bear in its tracks.  Like a towering bear himself, the giant of a man waved his arms in the air as he shouted obscenities like only a Vystarin sailor could, calling for more speed to carry the Sea Dragon into port.  The beating of the drum was joined by another, picking up tempo while the oars beat even more furiously at the waves. 

Lurching like a whipped horse, the Sea Dragon picked up speed as if eager herself to reach the docks, seeming to glide across the water more than to sail through it.  An advantageous wind blew up strongly from the south, filling the sail and helping to propel the longship toward the docks.

Other vessels appeared around the Sea Dragon, gargantuan Imperial warships and private fishing boats all on their way toward the safety of Ne’mair’s ports, but the speeding longship overtook them all.  As Sage watched the seascape racing by and the city growing ever larger ahead, gruff voices were raised in song behind him, led by the overpowering and off-key bass of the captain himself. 

“Hail to the mighty gods of old,

who make my chest swell hearty and bold.

I ride the waves without fear,

the song of Valengard ringing clear.

If the sea should take my life,

I’ll go with my heart full of pride.

To Valengard I ride!”

The sailors raised their voices high in a cacophony of sound, spurred on by their captain from his perch at the rudder.  Led by the words of the traditional song, which kept time as well as the drums, the oarsmen heaved on without thought of fatigue.  The frightened eyes of the merchants darted about skittishly, their heads no doubt full of horror stories about berserk Vystarin raiders and their insatiable bloodlust.

From the decks of nearby ships, curious watchers stopped to peer across the waves at the newcomers, some in awe and others in disgust for the raucous heathens in their midst.  Despite himself, Sage could not stop his foot from tapping to the rhythm of the drums, losing himself momentarily in the ancient pride of his homeland.

“That’s it, me boy!” the captain shouted from the rudder as the crew took up another familiar song.  “Ye know the words.  Sing ye little b*****d!  Sing!  Make your ancestors proud!”

Chuckling to himself, Sage let the music carry him away with its infectious rhythm.  He knew if he failed to sing along, the forceful captain would never let him leave the ship without a tongue-lashing for acting ashamed of his heritage.  It was only a matter of time before Sage tipped back his head and let his own voice join the pandemonium of song that carried the Sea Dragon into the harbor. 

The sun was still more than two hours from completing its descent into the western horizon when the swift vessel moved within shouting distance of the Ne’mairian docks.  Song died down and transformed into whoops of celebration as the beat of the drums came to a close, the noise eventually settling down into a more serious atmosphere while the men began the work of bringing the oars onboard.  The captain deftly maneuvered the steering board, his thick muscles straining against the horizontal shaft that guided the large oar’s movement. 

With the wind still favorably behind her, the Sea Dragon glided easily alongside one of the numerous docks before the sail was lowered.  Another cheer arose from the ship’s crew as the men on the dock extended a wide plank across to the deck and helped rope the Sea Dragon in place.

As the crewmen stood from the chests that held their belongings�"which had served them as benches during the long voyage�"and busied themselves with final preparations for going ashore, the burly captain strode across to the dock.  Sage picked up the heavy rucksack that contained his own belongings and followed closely at the man’s heels, tossing a dark brown, rain-sodden cloak over his shoulders.

Waiting for them on the dock was a hook-nosed foreman whose left eye stared milky-white and blind from a socket that showed more scar tissue than skin.  The disfigured man held a log book and pen in his hands and was flanked by two ugly brutes with short swords at their waists.

“Ship name and captain,” the foreman demanded.

“Jeorg Sigurdsson, an’ this here is the Sea Dragon,” the big man barked curtly, obviously unhappy with the Imperial’s disrespectful attitude.  The little man made a record in his log before speaking again.

“Crew, passengers, and reason for docking,” he demanded as he spat on the dock, narrowly missing Jeorg’s foot.

“Hired transport,” Jeorg replied with a grimace.  “Thirty-five crew�"meself included�"and four passengers.”

“Payment,” the foreman ordered after recording the information.

Jeorg pulled a coin pouch from his belt and counted out three fat golden coins stamped with the Imperial seal into the foreman’s grimy fingers.  The little man marked in his log book before promptly snapping it shut, the coins disappearing into a large pouch at his waist.

“Welcome to Ne’mair,” he said while trying his hardest to peer with one good eye down his nose at a man who towered over him.  Failing miserably at the task, the foreman wheeled around with a harrumph and strode rigidly away, his guards trailing.

“Angry little whelp, that one,” Jeorg commented as he turned back toward his ship and crew.

The three huddled merchants sprang to their feet as one and scurried across the plank on unsteady legs, nearly yelping like whipped dogs when Jeorg’s bulk blocked their path.

“Half payment on departure, an’ half again on safe arrival,” he reminded them sternly, wriggling his thick fingers at them in expectation.

After gulping as if he had swallowed a stone, the lead merchant stepped forward and grudgingly handed the captain a pouch that bulged with coin.  Jeorg stepped aside graciously and swept his arm as indication for them to pass.  He could not help chuckling as the three men scampered away like fleeing rats.

“Thank ye fer choosin’ Sea Dragon,” he shouted jovially at their backs.

“Well, me boy,” Jeorg said after turning back to Sage.  “Seems this be where we part ways.”

“It was an honor sailing with you and your crew, Captain Sigurdsson,” Sage replied, taking Jeorg’s extended hand and shaking it firmly.

“Aye, always a pleasure sailin’ with kinsmen who remember the old ways.  The boys an’ I’ll be stayin’ at an inn near here.  Ye is welcome to share a horn o’ mead at our table an’ swap stories o’ home.”

“I appreciate the offer, but must reluctantly decline.  There are urgent matters that require my attention,” Sage said with genuine reluctance.

Jeorg nodded his understanding and accepted the other half of Sage’s payment with a second offer for drink and directions to the tavern should the young man change his mind.

The big man looked Sage up and down one last time and shook his head, “Me crew could use a kinsman like yerself, if only ye were not so damned tiny.”

“We cannot all be built like a bear, you giant b*****d,” Sage responded with a chortle that brought back Jeorg’s laughter.

“Aye, we cannot at that.  If I is the bear, then ye be the wolf; smaller, but no less dangerous.”

Sage nodded with a half-smile that failed to touch his icy blue eyes.  After a moment, Jeorg grunted with a shrug of his massive shoulders, clapping the smaller man on the back one last time.

“Gods be with ye, kinsman,” he said.

“With you as well,” Sage replied in kind before turning and striding away from the ship that had been his home for nearly a fortnight.

Sage melted easily into the crowd of workers and late afternoon shoppers who still populated the docks despite the steady drizzle, allowing his cloak to float behind him in the wind rather than attempting to wrap it around himself or to disguise his weapons.  The sword and axe at his waist drew sideways glances from those who passed by, but it was attention that could not be helped.  Sage noticed with more than a little surprise that he seemed to be the only man wandering the rain-slicked docks with a weapon at his side.  In a district as dangerous as Ne’mair’s waterfront, it was unusual to not see blades or cudgels at nearly every waist. 

The dock workers were a rough lot, hard of face and body and seeming to be uniformly ugly as they cursed and spit and shoved their way through the crowd.  Deformities and missing limbs�"fingers, arms, and sometimes even severed legs�"were not uncommon sights, the result of boat accidents or brutal street fights.  With crates or other such burdens in their wiry arms, which were almost always bare as if the wind carried no chill, the rough-natured laborers were in stark contrast to the merchants and common folk around them.

Though a few carts and carriages belonging to the more successful merchants could be seen struggling to move through the crowd, most of the travelers were on foot with an occasional hand cart lumbering along before them, laden with goods fresh from the sea.  Scattered groups of Imperial Guardsmen wandered through the throng�"far more than Sage had seen during his last visit to Ne’mair�"in leather and chainmail armor with a shining spear in hand and a short-bladed spatha belted to their waists. 

They watched the comings and goings like hawks searching for prey.  Sage received more than one such scrutinizing for the fine weapons he possessed and the self-assured way with which he carried himself, but he passed them by as if he had not noticed the inspection.   From the hard-eyed stares he was receiving, he would not have been surprised if one of the guardsmen had chosen to confront him, but glaring seemed to be as far as any were prepared to go.

The common folk themselves were almost exclusively men, and most often Imperials with close-cropped hair and faces shaven clean except for the occasional short mustache.  Where a woman could be found amidst the throng, she was never alone, accompanied by her husband or some other man to help carry goods and watch for trouble.  Even with so many guardsmen on patrol, the docks could be a dangerous place for a woman alone, especially with the sun sinking toward the horizon. 

Their attire was plain and sturdy of craftsmanship, made from cheaper materials befitting members of the peasant class.  Men wore simple cotton shirts beneath woolen jackets or belted tunics in dull earthen shades of browns and greens, their drawstring breeches loose fitting and tucked into leather shoes that fastened around the ankles.  Only on the more wealthy men could be seen hats of varying manufacture; wide-brimmed, tapered, or simple linen coif caps that fastened under the chin.  The women were splashes of color amidst the otherwise drab attire, resplendent by comparison in wool or linen kirtles displaying bright reds, greens, or blues.  Loose fitting shirts protruded from the sleeveless dresses, which were laced either front or back like a corset.

Standing out from the peasant folk around them, a few scattered merchants could be seen pushing their way through the crowd with their noses upturned at the common rabble around them, accompanied more often than not by hired toughs to do the pushing for them.  Theirs were clothes that showed a diversity unseen amongst the commoners, ruffled sleeves flaring out from beneath fine jackets of brightly colored wool that was of higher quality than those worn by the peasants. 

After a long winter patrol of Riyvarian interests across the Tarwyn Sea, an Imperial frigate had just arrived at one of the docks nearby, and the walkways leading to it were packed with eager families being joyously reunited with their returning loved ones.  Countless young, fresh-faced men of the Imperial Navy, enlisted seamen in simple blue tunics and officers in dark blue uniforms featuring shoulder knots of rank and tricorne hats, all clutched children and youthful wives in their arms, the women sobbing from joy and smiles splitting every face.  The more salty sailors�"enlisted and officers alike�"hung back and watched impassively over pipes of tobacco, their more acclimated families awaiting their arrival at their homes.

Sage skirted the mass of bodies as best he could, weaving his way carefully through the celebrations when avoidance became impossible.  At last he found the street he desired and gratefully left the bustle of the waterfront behind as he trudged deeper into the city.  It had snowed heavily only the night before, but most of it had already been cleared from the cobbled streets by city workers and was piled in heaping mounds that framed every major street.  Only the smaller byways and countless alleys, made of hard-packed dirt instead of cobblestones, were still a mess to traverse, and Sage avoided those routes as much as he could.  By the time he had moved beyond the warehouses, fisheries, and the like that sprung up around the docks, there was little mud clinging to his boots.

Street signs along the surrounding buildings proclaimed him down Old Blackbriar Lane as he passed the last apartments and a midwife’s house that marked the end of one of Ne’mair’s less costly residential districts.  The decrepit slums that comprised Kiev District could be seen across the span of a junkyard and the shabby home of an embalmer who serviced the poorest sectors of the city.  The wide lane of Willow Street snaked its way from the only outdoor market in the slums, passing south of the junkyard and cutting Old Blackbriar Lane off abruptly as it meandered northwest toward Ne’mair’s more reputable regions.  Sage turned onto the cobbled street after waiting for a lumbering merchant wagon to rumble passed, receiving a polite nod from the driver for not cutting off the two sturdy horses.

Sage trudged on through the late afternoon throng with his eyes downcast against the light of the approaching sunset, avoiding as best he could the stream of irreverent bodies that would not have corrected their path even to avoid a collision.  Only the wagon drivers received any sort of cursory respect, and that was simply because of the armed guards shoving their way along beside and the cruel whips of the drivers themselves. 

Not far ahead of where Sage weaved through the traffic, an unfortunate young peasant woman was bumped by a passerby, causing her to spill her burden of goods directly in front of an oncoming wagon.  The driver snapped his whip overhead in warning, shouting a curse that could have made a sailor blanch, and the poor girl was forced to sacrifice her fallen goods in exchange for her own life.  Without slowing, the wagon continued along.  No one in the crowd seemed to have noticed the near-accident. 

Sage ignored the woman's pleas for assistance as he passed her by without so much as glance.  He was forced to weave abruptly around another patrol of Imperial Guardsmen moving through the crowd.  The soldiers were given as wide a birth as any wagon, their hard eyes scanning their surroundings while gauntleted fists gripped weapons as if expecting to use them.  Sage could not help but notice that an air of paranoia had taken over the populace of Ne’mair.  Everywhere he looked peasants scurried about their business with eyes downcast as if afraid to glance up from the path before them. 

When one such man bumped passed him with only a mumbled apology, Sage grabbed the man by his arm and pulled him off to the side of the street.  The man’s dark eyes were frightened as they darted from sword to axe, and only Sage’s firm grip on his arm kept the peasant from running away. 

“I am noticing an unusual number of guardsmen about today,” Sage said calmly so as not to further terrify the man.  “Has something happened?”

“Aye, an’ where ‘ave you been to not know of it?” the man spat.

“I have spent many days at sea, friend.  Would you fill me in as to why the air is so heavy with tension?”

“It’s Emperor Silvus,” the man replied.  “Found ‘im dead by an assassin’s blade less than a fortnight ago.  They’re sayin’ it was the Brotherhood of Shadows that did ‘im in.”

“The Brotherhood of Shadows is nothing more than a myth meant to frighten the weak-minded,” Sage said firmly.

“Same as I would ‘ave said till it happened, but the Council has been combing the city lookin’ for them.  Don’t think they would be wastin’ their time on a rumor,” the man said.

“Thank you for your time, sir,” Sage said absently as he released his grip on the peasants arm.  The other man nodded before scurrying away into the throng.

Sage cursed underneath his breath as he resumed his trek, his mind racing at the implications of what he had just been told.  His business had just become far more urgent than he had imagined, and he shoved his way through the crowd without concern for the strangers he jostled in passing.  There was no time left in Sage’s day for petty distractions or attempts at being polite.  He had important work to do.