The Barons' War - Chapter 4

Frozen Sea, Near the Silent Isles

William didn’t know if he’d ever been this cold. Even through thick gloves, he could barely feel his fingers, and ice crystals had formed on his eyebrows. The Frozen Sea lived up to its name, great sheets of ice floated like pale islands upon the dark waters, some larger than his ship.

William braced himself against the railing as the ship lurched again, water sloshing over his boots. Every time the hull crashed against a wave, the vessel shuddered with a groan that seemed to rise from its very bones. When he looked down, he saw seawater seeping through cracks in the planking, freezing in thin sheets before more water pushed through.

With one more look out at the sea, William turned and headed below decks to check on the status of the ship. It had been a concern ever since the battle with the Alchmara raiders, and it was getting worse. Each day William came down to look at the repairs, and each day it seemed as if the stress fractures running through multiple planks had expanded. The temporary patches they’d applied were already failing, wooden pegs swelling and cracking as they froze.

“The cold makes everything worse,” the carpenter said. “Wood doesn’t bend; it breaks. Tar doesn’t seal; it cracks. And the water... we’re bailing as fast as we can, but she’s taking on more than we can remove.”

“How long?”

“If the weather holds? Maybe a day. Less if the wind picks up.”

Not that they had any choices. The only real ports they could head to all belonged to the Icelands. If they sailed into any of them, he and his men would be arrested, and he would be sent to his father for judgment.

His men would fare much worse than that.

They’d sailed as close to the northern ice sheets as possible to avoid any Icelander ships, although those did not tend to sail north of Winterfang. It had worked, at least so much that they hadn’t needed to fight a second engagement.

The cost to the ship, on the other hand, had been high.

“We have no choice but to press on,” William said. “We’ll pass the edge of Sidor by tomorrow and be able to turn south into warmer waters.”

“I don’t think we can make it that far. Not in this condition.”

William placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Then work faster. Use whatever materials you need. Take wood from the bunks or the galley if necessary. Just keep the ship afloat.”

When he returned to the deck, William found Eskild and Sir Drummond directing soldiers to assist the sailors.

“How bad?” Drummond asked.

“Bad enough. It won’t hold much longer.”

Eskild spat over the side. “The men are taking turns at the pumps, but half of them are too sick to stand.”

Indeed, many of William’s remaining retinue, thirty men-at-arms and six knights, were not sailors by nature. The rough seas had laid low even some of the toughest fighters, leaving them pale and retching.

“Double the rotation. If they can stand, we need them working. No man rests for more than an hour. And find those who aren’t yet sick. I need every able body.”

As daylight faded, the temperature dropped further. The sea spray froze on the rigging, adding dangerous weight to the lines.

William did what he could, supervising the bailing operation and passing buckets alongside his men. He knew his father would behave differently in this circumstance, hiding in the relative warmth of the captain’s cabin, but a prince who wouldn’t share his men’s hardships didn’t deserve their loyalty.

“Your Highness should rest,” Sir Drummond said, taking a bucket from William’s hands. “You’ll be needed with a clear head if things worsen.”

“Things have already worsened. And they’ll worsen still before dawn.”

He spoke more truth than he knew. As night fell fully, the wind shifted, bringing with it a wall of clouds that blotted out the stars.

The sudden squall struck with fury. Rain mixed with sleet lashed the deck, while waves twice the height of a man crashed over the bow. The ship rolled dangerously, water pouring through the scuppers and finding every crack in the damaged hull.

A massive wave broke over the starboard rail, sweeping across the deck with enough force to knock men from their feet. Two sailors went sliding toward the port side, certain to be lost overboard until they desperately grabbed passing rigging. The ship listed sharply, groaning like a dying beast.

Below decks, barrels crashed against bulkheads, spilling their contents. Crates of supplies became battering rams, shattering against support beams.

William fought his way down the ladder, water rushing up to meet him. He found chaos in the hold, supplies floating free, men struggling to secure what they could while staying above the rising water.

“Get those barrels lashed down!” William ordered, wading toward a group of soldiers trying to corral a large cask that threatened to smash through the hull from the inside. “And move anything valuable above!”

The ship lurched again, sending William crashing against a bulkhead. Pain flared in his shoulder, but he pushed it aside. He helped two soldiers lash down a crate of food, then directed others to form a bucket line from the lowest point of the hold.

When he returned to the deck, the situation had deteriorated further. The mainmast rigging had snapped on one side, leaving the sail to flap wildly in the wind like a wounded bird. Three sailors clung to the yards, fighting to secure the canvas before it tore free completely.

“Cut it if you must!” the captain shouted up to them. “Better to lose a sail than the mast!”

William watched as the men worked with knives and bare hands, the wind threatening to tear them from their perches with each gust. One sailor lost his grip, hanging by a single hand for a heart-stopping moment before his fellows pulled him back to safety.

Through the night, the battle against sea and storm continued. William moved between decks, helping where he could, encouraging when he couldn’t. The ship’s carpenter worked frantically to patch new leaks, but for each breach he sealed, two more appeared.

“The lower deck is lost,” Eskild reported near midnight, water streaming from his beard. “Completely flooded.”

“What does the captain say?”

“Three hours. Maybe less.”

“And the storm?”

“No sign of breaking.”

Bad news, but what choices did they have? It wasn’t like there was anywhere to go. They would either survive or they wouldn’t. All he could do now was pray.

The ancients must have been watching them because as the first pale light broke through the clouds, the winds began to ease. The seas remained rough, but the killing fury of the storm had passed, and they were still afloat, but with the amount of water they were taking on, no bailing in the world was going to keep them above water much longer.

“Land!” came the cry from the lookout. “Land to port!”

William rushed to the rail, straining his eyes toward where the man pointed. There, through breaking clouds, he saw it, a dark smudge on the horizon. A fairly large island, its shores white with snow and ice.

“How far?”

“Three leagues, perhaps four,” the captain said, joining him at the rail.

“Change course. Make for land with all speed.”

“Your Highness…”

“You said the ship was starting to sink, didn’t you? It’s the island or the sea floor, captain. Your choice.”

The captain nodded and barked orders to the helmsman. The ship groaned as it turned, laboring through the waves toward the distant shore.

The flooding accelerated with the change in motion. Men worked the pumps in a frenzy, while others bailed with buckets, helmets, anything that could hold water. It wasn’t enough. The vessel settled deeper by the minute, its movements growing sluggish and unresponsive.

William helped a group of soldiers move supplies to higher ground as water claimed more of the lower decks. No one had slept that night, and his arms burned with exhaustion, but he forced himself to continue. If the ship sank before reaching shore, they would all die in these freezing waters.

Of course, saying you were going to beach on the island and doing it were very different things. Rocky outcroppings lurked just beneath the water’s surface, ready to tear out the ship’s belly. Thankfully the captain knew his business and ordered sailors to take soundings, calling depths from the bow as they navigated the treacherous approach.

“Five fathoms!” called a sailor.

“Four fathoms!”

“Three fathoms, rocks to starboard!”

The ship scraped against something beneath the waves, the impact sending men stumbling. A terrible grinding noise rose from below, as if the keel itself was being torn away.

“Two fathoms! Rocks everywhere!”

The vessel lurched to port, then back to starboard, its hull dragging across the underwater hazards. William clung to the rail as the deck tilted sharply. Loose items turned deadly, sliding across the planking and striking unwary legs. A water barrel broke free of its lashings and crashed against the mast, narrowly missing Sir Drummond’s head.

“Brace yourselves!” the captain shouted as a wave lifted the stern, driving them forward toward the beach.

William grabbed a rope and wrapped it around his wrist, then reached out to steady a young soldier who looked ready to be sick with fear.

The impact, when it came, threw everyone to the deck. The ship struck ground with a deafening crack, its hull fracturing in a dozen new places but somehow remaining intact. Men and equipment tumbled across tilting decks as the vessel ground to a halt on the frozen shore.

For a long moment, silence reigned, broken only by the creak of settling timbers and the moan of the wind. Then, gradually, men began to stir, checking themselves and their companions for injuries.

“Is anyone dead?” William called, pulling himself to his feet.

His left arm throbbed where he’d struck it against a capstan, but nothing seemed broken. Reports came back from throughout the ship. Cuts, bruises, and two broken bones, but miraculously, no fatalities. As the tide began to recede, the ship settled at an increasingly severe angle, its bow driven into the rocky beach while its stern remained partially afloat.

William made his way to where the captain stood surveying their situation, his face grim beneath its weathering. The captain pointed toward the mist-shrouded interior of the island.

“The Silent Isles, Your Highness. The largest of them, if I don’t miss my guess.”

William hadn’t even considered that was where they were. He’d heard stories of these islands. Of the attempts of the Icelander’s ancestors to set up colonies, only for every man to go missing. Of things seen by passing ships. They appeared on few maps, and those that did mark them often added warnings in the margins.

“I thought sailors avoided these waters.”

“With good reason. Ships that land here tend not to leave. Crews vanish without a trace. No bodies, no wreckage, just empty vessels found drifting months later, if they’re found at all.”

William studied the shoreline. Snow-covered rocks giving way to a dark line of pines further inland. A mist rose from the forest, obscuring anything beyond a hundred yards from the shore.

“Old sailors’ tales,” said Sir Drummond, joining them.

The captain shook his head. “I’ve known three good vessels lost in these waters. Good crews, too. Experienced men who wouldn’t fall to common dangers.”

William didn’t have time for superstition. “Tales or not, we’re here now. And we need to survive until we can leave.”

He turned to assess their situation. The ship listed at nearly thirty degrees, its starboard rail almost touching the water at high tide. The hull was cracked in multiple places, water flowing freely in and out with the waves. Most of their supplies remained intact, though many were soaked with seawater.

“Can she be repaired?”

“It will take work, Your Highness,” the carpenter said. “We’ve lost sections of the keel, and the hull planking is shattered in a dozen places. But it can be done, given time and materials.”

William nodded. “How long?”

“A month? Maybe two.”

A month on an island where ships and crews vanished without a trace with a bunch of superstitious sailors.

This wouldn’t be easy.

“Begin salvage operations. Gather all weapons, tools, food, and medicines first. Everything else can wait.”

“Eskild, take four men and scout the immediate area. No more than half a mile inland, and stay within sight of shore if possible. Sir Drummond, organize the men into watches. I want eyes on the forest at all times.”

The ship’s crew busied themselves with securing what remained of the vessel against further damage. Sailors climbed the tilted rigging, furling sails that had somehow survived the journey. Others worked to drain the flooded compartments now that they had reached relatively stable ground.

“This is a bad place to be,” the captain said as they watched the men work.

“And yet, it’s where we are. Get this ship repaired as quickly as you can. Tell me what you need, and my men will help you find it.”

The captain nodded and headed off to keep his men moving as William looked from the rocky shore to the foreboding treeline.

A bad place indeed.

***

***

Rendallia City, Rendallia

Isolde gripped the crushed scroll in her hand, which was still trembling. She had read it again and again until the tiny, precise script blurred from the tears filling her eyes.

The message was terse but very clear. Her father, Emperor Baudric Montbore the Eighth, Defender of the Ancients and ruler of the Lynesian people, was dying. He had collapsed during a formal council meeting three days prior. The Disciples had done everything in their ability to help him, but their treatments were proving ineffective and his condition deteriorated rapidly.

There was no love lost between herself and her father, but still she had been unable to contain the tears. Perhaps the news had just shocked her and the reaction had been one of the unexpected. Or maybe she had just learned that, in spite of the evil things the man had done in the name of power, she still loved him, somewhere deep inside.

Taking a deep breath, she smoothed out the crumpled message, making it legible again. She needed to think clearly. Her father had never been a hale man, too fond of rich foods and sweet wines, too averse to physical exertion, but he had always seemed... indomitable. Like a statue. Something that would always exist.

She rang for her handmaiden. When the girl appeared, Isolde spoke with quiet authority, mostly to hide the quiver in her voice.

“Send word to the stables to prepare horses. I must travel to Valemonde with all haste.”

“Shall I inform Baron Pembroke of your intentions?”

She frowned at that. She knew the girl, one of her Sidorian handmaidens, was trying to get ahead of her wishes, but it still felt more like a suggestion than a question.

“I will speak with him myself. But first, have my traveling clothes laid out and send my secretaries to me. There are arrangements to be made.”

As the girl hurried away, Isolde rose and walked out to the window, looking down at the only other place she had called home aside from Valemonde.

Three months ago, she had been a princess of Lynese. Now she was the wife of Prince William Whitton, who had been in line to the throne of Sidor until he joined the civil war to remove his own adoptive father from the throne. The irony did not escape her. She had left Valemonde as part of a peace treaty and right into another war.

Her secretaries arrived within the quarter hour, and Isolde gave them precise instructions: letters to be drafted, provisions to be secured, and the like. When they departed, she changed into a simple riding dress of deep blue, her only concession to her royal status a silver brooch bearing the intertwined sigils of Montbore and Whitton which she had recently commissioned.

Baron Pembroke was in the council chamber, bent over a map with two local nobles when Isolde entered. He dismissed them with a nod and turned to her, his green eyes noting her attire with immediate concern.

“Your Highness,” he said, bowing slightly and then pausing as he looked at her face a second time. “Is everything alright?”

Isolde handed him the message. “No, it isn’t. My father is gravely ill. The healers say he has little chance of recovery.”

“I am truly sorry,” he said, quickly reading the message. “Your Highness. Emperor Baudric is a formidable man.”

A very diplomatic way of putting that.

“He is. I came to inform you that I am going to visit him, to see him before it’s too late.”

“To Valemonde? Your Highness, I must counsel against such a journey at this time.”

“I have already begun preparations. I plan to leave first thing in the morning.”

The baron placed the message carefully on the table between them. “Princess Isolde, I understand your desire to be with your father. It speaks well of your heart. But I must ask you to reconsider. Rendallia is still in a state of transition. Your presence here is vital.”

“My father is dying.”

“Perhaps we might send representatives in your stead? Trusted emissaries who could convey your grief and good wishes to the imperial court.”

“Baron Pembroke, I value your counsel in matters of state. But this is a matter of family. I will go to my father.”

“Please, sit for a moment before you rush off,” he said, gesturing at a pair of chairs.

Isolde hesitated, then took a seat. She knew Rowan Pembroke to be a wise and measured man. William had spoken highly of him, and in the short time she had known him, she had come to respect his judgment since William had left. The least she could do was listen.

“Your Highness. Rendallia stands at a critical juncture. We have only just begun the process of dividing the territory into proper baronies. Large portions of land remain without direct noble oversight. We face a shortage of Sidorian administrators familiar with local customs, and the governance problems that creates are significant.”

“I am aware of these challenges, Baron.”

“I know you are. But your status as both Lynesian royalty and wife to William provides crucial legitimacy to Sidorian rule here. The common folk look to you as a bridge between their old allegiances and their new sovereign, which is especially difficult considering the conflict Sidor is currently in. Your departure at this delicate time could undermine all we have worked to build.”

“I respect your concerns. But I do not believe my temporary absence will cause the duchy to collapse.”

“It is not collapse I fear. It is opportunity, the kind that our enemies seek. There are those who would exploit your absence to sow dissent among former Lynesian subjects. Already we have heard whispers of discontent in some border villages.”

“Whispers only. The common folk of Rendallia care little who sits on a distant throne, Baron Pembroke. Whether they pay taxes to Valemonde or Starhaven makes small difference in their daily lives.”

“Perhaps. But symbols matter in times of change. And you, Princess, are a powerful symbol.”

“I am also a daughter. Think of how it would appear if I did not go to my father’s deathbed. Would that not seem cruel? Would it not damage relations between Lynese and Sidor far more than my brief absence from Rendallia?”

“What of Prince William? Based on when he left Sidor, he should be here in a few weeks. Do you not wish to be here when he returns?”

“If my father’s condition is as dire as it seems, I should return before William arrives. And if not, William will understand my decision.”

Pembroke paused for a moment, frowning. He was a man used to getting what he wanted, and was clearly frustrated by her blocking each of his arguments.

“May I speak plainly, Princess?” Pembroke finally asked.

“What have you been doing so far?”

“Your relationship with your father has been ... strained, has it not? You have told me of his angry disagreements with your choices ruling Lynese. You once said you were happy to be gone from the palace. Why seek reconciliation with a man you couldn’t stand and who’s known for his stubbornness? It may prove impossible.”

The question struck closer to Isolde’s heart than she expected. She rose from her chair and walked to the window, gathering her thoughts.

“I never said I was happy to leave Lynese,” she said. “My feelings about my homeland are more complex than that. Yes, my marriage was a political necessity. But I have found it to be a positive arrangement overall. I have grown to love the Sidorian people, but that does not mean I hate my former subjects or my family.”

“Of course not.”

“My dual loyalties are not in conflict. They complement each other. I believe I can serve both Sidor and Lynese better by embracing both parts of my heritage. Beyond politics, however, there is the matter of my soul. The Acolytes teach us that when we end, we ascend to join the chorus of ancestors. How can I allow my father to pass into that realm with bitterness between us? In the Writings of Elder Elianzo, we are told, ‘The unresolved conflicts of the living become eternal barriers in the realm of the ancestors. Make peace in life, lest the discord pass down through generations.’ I must make peace with my father before his death. Not just for his sake, or for mine, but for my future children’s sake. If there is even the slightest chance for reconciliation, I must take it.”

“I agree that the spiritual obligation is significant,” Pembroke acknowledged reluctantly. “But…”

“I am going,” Isolde interrupted, her voice firm. “That is my decision. The only way you could stop me is to put me in a cell, and I do not believe you would do that.”

“No, Your Highness, I would not.” He said, with much the same frustration her father always had for her. “Very well. If you are determined to go, we must make proper arrangements. I will assemble an escort of my finest men to bring you safely to Lynese.”

“Lord Agravaine will be administering most state affairs with my father bedridden. He would never allow Sidorian soldiers to enter Valemonde at such a vulnerable time.”

“Then how do you propose to travel? I am not comfortable with you traveling on your own with just some handmaidens.”

“I will write to Lord Agravaine today. Lynesian soldiers can meet me at the border and escort me the rest of the way.”

“I dislike the thought of you traveling without Sidorian protection for any part of your journey. You realize, Your Highness, that once you cross into Lynese, you will be beyond our reach. If my father should recover, or if Lord Agravaine should decide your political value is too great...”

“I appreciate your concerns, but my mind is made up. I must see my father before he dies. I will return to Rendallia as swiftly as possible after seeing my father.”

“I believe you mean that, Your Highness. But intentions and outcomes do not always align in matters of state.”

“No,” Isolde admitted. “They do not. But we must act according to our best judgment, must we not? And my judgment tells me I must go to my father.”

Pembroke sighed and said, “Then go with my blessing, Princess, and with my prayers. I will make the necessary arrangements for your journey.”

“Thank you,” Isolde said, relief evident in her voice. “I knew you would understand.”

“I understand your heart, Your Highness. It is the hearts of others that concern me.”

She didn’t disagree, but she had to go. She had to see him one last time, before he left this plane.