Karadra's Shipwreck

The Island - Chapter 8

Bruises decorated his face. An extensive black shadow framed his forehead, a gift delivered by Arsik’s fists. Two large cuts and a few small scars fashioned their own pathways on his head. His eyes spit fire. Not the fire of a man’s anger, but that of a puppet’s.

He stood near Golderim with his eyes fixed on Arsik, who smiled at him. The rest of that night as it should have transpired was conveyed in that smile: a series of punches and the definitive one saved for last ‒ the one that would have earned Phaelo a permanent residence a few feet underground, and Talos would still be alive today, probably.

“Phaelo here believes there are still a few issues to be resolved regarding your bad behavior, Arsik. He spoke to me about an unexpected assault behind the 21 Seagulls, completely without provocation. Is that any way to treat people, hm?”

Behind Golderim’s hollow words ‒whom the situation clearly amused‒, Arsik suspected there was much more in play than just himself or Phaelo.

He allowed himself a generous gulp of rum. “He killed my friend. We’re even. We’ll leave it at that, and I won’t beat the rest of him to a bloody pulp.”

Phaelo flared his nostrils like a bull. “Let me kill him, Golderim. Give me a knife, damn it, he almost killed me!”

Arsik shook his head reproachfully. Golderim pretended to be pondering.

“Hold on now, though, Phaelo, my boy. You did kill his friend. He does have a point, there is indeed a balance to consider. Oh dear, how are we ever going to untangle this perplexity? Is letting you go truly the proper solution, Arsik Iceberg?”

“It seems so,” Arsik answered without expecting much.

“Yes, it may seem so, but it is not so,” Golderim supplemented, confirming Arsik’s suspicions. “You see, I can accept the gold as payment for your treatment. I can even ignore a few minor insults towards my person. But an assault on one of my crewmembers is like a direct assault to me personally. Do you understand?”

Arsik lowered his head again and squeezed his glass in his hand, feeling his forehead catching fire. He did understand where he was, who he was talking to. Obviously, Golderim Veyr regarded himself as a king ‒ a true king, not simply a powerful archpirate. Such was his narcissism that he felt an attempt against one of his crew equaled an attack on the royal guard.

Arsik realized the archpirate had already produced conclusions and decisions and was now simply entertaining himself with Arsik’s helplessness.

“Then what?” he said, raising his voice. “Why did you heal me if you plan to kill me?”

Golderim recoiled, feigning shock. “Oh no, I never said such a thing. What kind of man do you think I am? Not being completely even is one thing, killing you is totally another.”

Phaelo glared at him like a child suffering a grave injustice.

“I cannot let you go. However, perhaps…” A pause, and then, “…you could work for me!” he said with a smile that lit up his entire face.

Phaelo seethed with anger. “Hold on, Golderim. Him? With us? I will tear him apart on the very first day! Are you on your right mind?”

Arsik glanced at him, nearly having forgotten his existence. His attention remained on Golderim, who had yet to reveal his true colors.

“Hold on now, Phaelo, my boy, this isn’t a simple decision. As you can see, things are much, much more complicated.”

Phaelo went on, yelling. “But why aren’t we just crucifying him? I don’t get it! Let the vultures have him and I’ll tell you if he’s going to bounce back from that.”

Arsik remembered the Bay of Sash, a small beach impervious to the law; a garden of piled-up bodies, nailed to crosses, scorched by the sun and tortured by pirates who delivered justice the way they wished. Everyone knew of this place, but they all steered clear of it. It was Golderim’s and the other wretches’ personal graveyard, the place where they could exhibit what they were made of. They displayed that through their talent for violence and their penchant to use pain to make examples out of people.

Arsik swallowed around a dry throat and, along with his saliva, he consumed a part of his courage. It landed in his stomach, which was being knotted tightly again.

“That is an interesting suggestion, Phaelo,” Golderim said, “but no, it wouldn’t be right to do that. We can have him working for us. He is definitely effective. Didn’t you see what he did in the jungle? He brought down an entire monster! Hold on, that ought to count for something, oughtn’t it?”

Envy was added to the emotions playing in Phaelo’s eyes.

Arsik mulled it over in his head. There were far worse things that could happen to him than working for Golderim Veyr. He surely would have to do a lot of dirty work, but that was already part of his life. Little by little, he would become part of a brotherhood with power and influence. Upon hearing the name of his boss, no one would dare move a muscle. Not to mention there were amenities involved: food, a roof over his head, protection and rum!

He arched his brows, starting to feel better with this idea. “What is it that I have to do, then?” he asked carelessly.

Ecstatic, Golderim rubbed his palms together, grinning. “Oh, a number of things! But it shall all be done in due time, fear not. You’ll see, you will have a splendid time here ‒ not to mention how well you will be paid, hm? Go ahead, ask any of them if they are dissatisfied. I’ve been treating them like little princes!”

Around the room, nobody moved. Arsik looked at Phaelo. “He seems to be dissatisfied,” he prodded, and Phaelo snarled.

Golderim dissolved into laughter. “Oh, you little rascal, you and I will get along remarkably well!”

As soon as the last word left his mouth, his face suddenly darkened. His body crumpled in on itself, shriveling as if he had just remembered terrible news ‒ so terrible they ruined that night’s festive mood.

Now we’re getting down to brass tacks, Arsik thought, his heartbeat accelerating.

“Alas, alas… I only just remembered,” Golderim whined. Arsik waited. “Oh, my poor Arsik, I forgot. My fault… Oh, how stupid of me.”

Phaelo gawked at him curiously.

“You see… I forgot that I had promised that very same job to another.”

Sweat started trickling down Arsik’s back. He couldn’t understand where this conversation was heading, but he surely didn’t like it.

“What do you mean? To whom? What job?”

“This ‒how should I put it‒ position I was talking to you about… You see, there is only one position and two of you.”

Those words resonated ominously in the room. Phaelo smiled.

“Two? Which two?”

“You are one of them, obviously… and the other one is a knight.”

Arsik’s eyebrows shot to his hairline. He clumsily let his glass on the table, and it rolled and landed on the floor, annoyingly distracting. “A knight? What knight? Why?”

Golderim was taking pleasure in Arsik’s panic. He addressed a guard. “What was his name? Sir…?”

“Sir Lothias Orans from Forcry, boss,” the guard replied.

“Ah, him, yes! Lothias Orans, a knight of Lothen. Titles, land, a powerful name, and his sight… A pure war machine! They train them very well there, you know. They can cut you to pieces within seconds!” Golderim burst out laughing, almost losing his balance and rolling off the divan.

Arsik thought of the knight, in plate armor, armed to the teeth. The kingdom of Lothen was renowned for its knights. Bladefall Academy, in the capital, was the most famous and powerful school of warfare. Each of its fighters graduated an expert wielder of the sword, the spear, the crossbow and other weapons. Everyone knew that. Arsik had learned it as a little boy, when he and the other neighborhood children played with wooden swords, pretending to be such knights. They were a legend, everybody’s dream.

“Who is that knight? And why should he work for you? I don’t understand.”

Arsik failed to connect the pieces of this puzzle, disoriented and confused within his own thoughts.

“We discovered him during our most recent journey,” Golderim answered solemnly. “He was part of a mission that set off from Lothen and moved along the coast of Armorgrand. As it seems, they were army reinforcements on route to the front lines of the war against the barbarians. We… stumbled upon them, and it is common knowledge that metal doesn’t mix well with the sea. They were strong but slow and carrying too much weight… So much that it doomed them to the bottom of the sea.”

His eyes gleamed in a way that affirmed his reputation and chilled Arsik’s blood.

“He survived. We brought him here, healed him too. He doesn’t fear death ‒ he told us that a hundred times, almost begged us to kill him. Due to honor, not fear… Pah!”

Arsik listened attentively, trying to picture it all. He’d recently heard about a war that had broken out between Armorgrand and Lothen. It appeared that the desert tribes, mostly consisting of the barbaric tribe of the Brutgors, had multiplied their raiding expeditions to the east, pillaging villages, fortresses and Lothen patrols, until the king answered with rallying up his troops and launching a campaign.

How unfortunate for the knights that would travel to the heart of these mountains of fire. They would bear witness to the horror of Armorgrand’s warriors and the brute force and violence associated with them.

But this knight suffered another cruel fate. Apparently, he escaped the wolf’s jaws to fall right into the mouth of a shark, and it was hard to decide where was worse.

“In any case, he will work for us. He won’t have a choice. He is quite young, you see, and not ready to die. On the contrary, he would fight tooth and nail for his life.”

Arsik was dumbfounded. “Why fight? For whom? How do you plan to force such a man to work for you? Not a chance he’ll do that. These knights have learned how to die long ago. They won’t jeopardize their honor and reputation.”

He spoke with the voice of reason. Golderim listened and weighed his words. Phaelo didn’t interrupt at all.

“He will fight when there is no alternative. He’s not prepared like you. You know the ropes. I’m certain that, as soon as you started on this job, you would immediately know where to go and what to do, unlike him. You would save me a lot of time and money, no doubt about that.”

Arsik found no joy in this statement. He listened but was fully aware that this conversation would inevitably arrive at an irremovable obstacle; it always did. Golderim told you what you wanted to hear, the reasonable, the obvious, and just when you were about to agree and support his choice, he retracted his promises and hung you out to dry. He did it all the time, exhausting Arsik, driving him mad, causing waves of anger inside him. Cold sweat had drenched his tunic shirt.

His lips twitched before speaking. “That would be an accurate prediction, Golderim, but I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

The archpirate had been expecting this moment. He straightened his back with pride and inhaled slowly, a greedy smile painted on his face.

“Listen here, Arsik. To be fair, because both of you are human beings and I can’t show you favor despite you being the obvious choice, we will have a match.”

Phaelo grinned. Arsik caught it with the corner of his eye and his anxiety spiked. “What… what kind of match?”

“A duel. To the death. And the winner will work for me.”

His golden teeth flashed, and all the color drained from Arsik’s face. His knees quivered and nearly gave way; his stomach somersaulted.

“What… what are you talking about? Me against him? Why? I mean… how?”

At a loss for words, the anger had retreated in the face of overwhelming fear. Golderim seemed truly happy.

The bastard is enjoying this. This is what he was waiting for all night; this and only this. This is what gives him pleasure, satisfaction ‒ his very own arena, and men fighting for their life while he watches and passes judgment.

“Come now, Arsik Iceberg! Don’t make such a face,” he softened his tone. “And what are you? A meager fledgling? Did you forget you slaughtered a monster? What is a knight compared to that? Nothing! Absolutely nothing! Not to mention you will have your knife.” He leaned forward and winked. “And it has a rune on it, I saw it, eh?”

Arsik’s head spun. He felt inconsolable, vulnerable. The prospect of a duel panicked him. In his mind, the knight was a trained war machine. These people learned strategy and proper combat moves, were taught lethal maneuvers and effective strikes that incapacitated an untrained opponent within seconds.

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t participated in fights before, dangerous fights, but he never thought of it this way. He fought whatever came his way with whatever advantage he had, but usually he and his opponents were evenly matched. The times the sea had disgorged something abominable his way, he remembered them in horror. It was one of the reasons he refused to go near it ‒ he felt like a cat trapped on an island. But this… This now was terrible.

His rival was a worthy knight, trained by some seasoned swordmaster in a castle or a manor, and his last name was Orans. Arsik didn’t know of it but had surely heard of it in the past, and that couldn’t be good news. What chances did he have against someone like that? And armed to the teeth, no less, with a plate armor and a well-crafted sword?

He started shaking. Tears stung his eyes, but he restrained them. Despite clenching his teeth, a few sobs slipped past. Golderim gazed at him in wonder. Arsik’s anger pounded in his skull like an irksome person knocking on his bedroom’s door.

He had fallen victim, again. He was a prisoner again, hunted again, cursed again, a few days later, a couple of fingers less, injuries, pain, hunger, rage, injustice, and with every step, he was scaling a mountain of s**t whose end he couldn’t see.

And all this for two punches on that fuckhead Phaelo, a shadow of a man, a useless being with a streak of luck on dice and cards.

Arsik’s mouth worked like the maw of a wild dog as he sorted through the situation in his head, clearly seeing where it led. His voice broke out from his chest vehemently, deeper and more broken than it normally was. Its sound startled Golderim, whose face tensed.

“Alright, you bastard. I will kill that godsdamn knight. And then, you’d better keep your word or else I…”

Spittle and words exploded simultaneously from his mouth, but his sentence was left unfinished. His inner flame burned low. He had no power, no arguments ‒ he had nothing against Golderim. In reality, the archpirate could change his mind whenever he pleased and sell him out, force him to jump through burning hoops or kill him on the spot. There was nothing he needed; nothing he lacked.

Golderim Veyr was a rich, powerful, ruthless man who was largely bored. He had time, lots and lots of time on his hands, and all he was searching for was entertainment. For many years, everyone knew, he was the king of hell… and Arsik was simply a mouse in his cellar, that he decided not to crush right away.