Karadra's Shipwreck

The Island - Chapter 2

Arsik glanced at his finger and licked the blood off the tip. His gums ached as his tongue roamed again over the wounds that once upon a time supported his teeth. He didn’t risk building a fire and opted not to eat at all, since anything he put in his mouth right now would only serve to hurt and irritate him. His stomach had become a draining sponge, that leaked the last drops of rum and caused him the familiar sickness that accompanied him day and night.

A lack of food and a surplus of alcohol and petulance – the three things that described the overwhelming majority of his days during these last few years, after his voyaging times on the seas of the Trident Empire as a mercenary, a deckhand and a sailor of all kinds.

Dark and untamed, the jungle around him was bursting with poisonous plants, willowy trees, climbing vines and colorful weeds besieged by all types of insects. Dawn was languidly approaching, dispelling the darkness inside the lush vegetation that reigned on the largest portion of the island – the wild land known as Sarathorn, Jungle of the Bee, Nest, and by other names given to it by pirates, fortune seekers and seafarers during the Empire’s rich history.

Arsik’s eyes had turned into two scarlet beads. His body had folded in on itself, seeking a decent level of comfort and rest in between unsolicited stabs of pain originating in his mouth, his stomach and, ultimately, his soul.

Every time Arsik felt insecure or afraid, he took refuge in the same hideout in the jungle, until trouble had abated, or he came up with a satisfying idea on how to handle it. The lack of food and the escape were simultaneously a self-punishment and a mockery towards his impulsive and crude actions, but the lesson was never learned in a way full and powerful enough to deter future repetition, and that, too, filled him with anger.

He spat a lump of blood and rose to his feet. The plants swayed in front of him like dancers, their shadows mirroring them. The breeze carried the smell of the sea to his nostrils, and Arsik allowed himself a long, briny inhale that traveled through his entire body. He waded slowly through the jungle towards the cacophony that signified his return to the city.

Saraport was divided into sections and everyone roughly knew what belonged where. Rich and bustling, its port was the largest and most impressive one in the South, a place where all kinds of vessels from the seas of Vitallia moored for shorter or longer periods of time. The crews moved back and forth between the docks and the hill that loomed over the vibrantly colored houses. Towering above everything, its peak was crowned with the old temple of Theanivar, patron goddess of Saraport, the Lady of Travel and Music.

Crowds daily ascended the hill to receive the priestess’ blessing and pray to the Goddess before an important voyage or a dangerous mission. Knights, soldiers, pirates, sailors, fortune seekers, barons and dukes, even slaves – all were equal during the climb, each of them carrying their own personal demons and trying to shake them off with the Goddess’ aid.

Arsik despised all of them on a very personal level and was vexed every time he witnessed despair and weakness – so much so, that he let a few curses slip past his lips whenever he happened to come across them. Theanivar, however, belonged to the Ten Gods of the Final Light, and faith and prejudice prevailed among Saraport’s social strata. Arsik had seen his fair share of things at sea, enough to harbor plenty of doubt regarding the higher powers and darkness of this world, therefore he didn’t allow himself to ponder much on the subject and refrained from becoming overly judgmental.

He followed the road that would take him back to Talos’ house. Sarathorn’s jungle began where the city ended, over the cliffs where the Snakeholes had been hollowed out, the infamous lairs of Saraport’s archpirates. Deep tunnels led to the uncharted labyrinths of these underground hideouts that sheltered the illegal businesses, treasures and partners of the venomous guilds that indirectly determined the fate of the island.

Every ship in the port bore a banner, the coat of arms of a powerful House. There were four great kingdoms in the Trident Empire and one dozen prominent families in each one, all of them with private fleets, armies, castles and whatever power and influence those entailed. The archpirates, however, were something different. Their names didn’t carry the weight of history, their blood didn’t belong to a renowned lineage, but, in their own way, they had managed to establish themselves in the seas of the South.

Arsik always admired an aspect of their darkness. In these lands, where the races of the world were born unequal and made do with whatever scraps the Gods afforded them, few were those who fought for something more and even fewer were the ones who succeeded in claiming it. The pirates, the murderers, the fortune seekers, whatever name people who chose this life were called; they had managed to seize that which they weren’t entitled to by birth. Somehow, they severed the shackles of their blood, they defied the rules and laws of men and scaled up the pyramid, stepping on a mountain of dead bodies.

There was no honor in this path, no – but there was another kind of code. There was the spirit of battle and adventure and conquest, and every seafarer should understand and respect that to a degree. This was, after all, the path Mascardi Berio and his warriors carved when these kingdoms were forged.

In this world, you collected what you fought for and not what you deserved, and that which you fought for, you conquered with blood. The honors and titles were for the Knights of Lothen and the Wizards of the Rose. Here, the sea of the Trident was the world’s arena and Saraport the lions’ cage. All these daring scoundrels that had defied lords, gods and demons, had ultimately managed to distribute and share power over the entire island – unofficially of course.

Everyone knew it and everyone kept it a secret. Oh, the law of the Judge, Saraport’s local overlord, was a rigorous metallic fist that crushed any snake foolish enough to tangle in its grip, on that there was no doubt. Woe upon the man –pirate, knight or slave– who would disgrace the law and get caught. The gallows on the main square hungrily awaited necks and their ropes never dried off. But the hand of the law worked on its own, short and often sluggish compared to the countless guilds that commanded this place.

The sun soared speedily over the masts of the dry morning and a timid wind brought the port’s noise to Arsik’s ears. He was lurching down the dirt banks, approaching the inhabited area again. Long lines of people, like ants that headed on opposite directions on the docks, carried merchandise between the ships and the city. Inside this dissonant mess, somewhere among the colorful houses, lay Talos’ house as well.

Arsik had to meander for a long time through alleys he didn’t normally use, choosing routes where he knew he was less likely to be spotted, all in an effort to avoid, for as long as he could, the consequences that would be looking for him after last night.

But no matter how long he lingered in the sparsely inhabited area of the island’s most luxurious residences –where sea veterans, captains and warriors had built opulent manor houses with high walls and bright flowers under ostentatious banners–, at some point he would inevitably have to return to his neighborhood, to Talos’ small brick-built house so near his own, through dirt paths that the lord of the city had long ago promised would be paved but never had been.

Arsik started getting annoyed as he contemptuously considered the lord’s lack of action on this department. Kicking away a pigeon unfortunate enough to land in front of him, he hurried on his way. His heart beat fast; his stomach felt like a dry knot. His fingers traced his sides, feeling his hollow waist. Where most people stored their fat, he had none. His waist resembled that of a little girl’s; a pathetic, slim ring of flesh that opened to a ribcage as fragile as a small bird’s, and two spindly arms.

Despite his sickly appearance, however, Arsik’s strength and pure nerve had earned him a reputation on the streets. Whoever messed with the skinny redhead ended up with bruises, scratches and spit on their face. Those who were more familiar with him knew that, when the anger pooled in that triangle between his eyes, the spirit of rage possessed him. Knives, knuckledusters, bottles and spikes made their appearance then, and the game changed level.

He arrived outside Talos’ front yard – a neglected, shriveled garden with a few, pitiful plants that looked like the fuzz of a teenage boy. Unlatching the iron gate, he carefully approached the house’s entrance, stepping lightly on the damp earth, where he could now clearly see recent footprints. On instinct, he slipped his knuckleduster on his hand and tightened his fist. With his free hand, he pushed the thick, wooden front door open, surprised to have found it ajar.

Talos’ humble sitting room had been reduced to a chaos of overturned furniture, smashed bottles, shredded mattresses, and a fallen roof beam that was now diagonally dividing the house.

Underneath the beam, Arsik found his friend’s dead body, discarded in a pool of black blood that was seeping into the floor. Talos, with his open eyes gleaming in the sunlight that stole through the window, stared into nothing, as lifeless and still as the sea on a windless day. His tunic shirt had been torn apart by slashes and brutal wounds in his stomach, chest and arms. The evidence all around spoke unmistakably of a struggle – and attested to how swiftly everything had ended.

Arsik remained still for a long time, dazed and speechless at the gruesome sight, fighting to put his thoughts in order. Approaching Talos, he touched a finger to his chin, lifting it to expose another deep wound, on his neck this time. His body rolled slowly and fell to the side with an ugly splat, ending up in an unnatural position.

In his head, Arsik recreated the struggle. Easily he concluded that, in fact, only two or three men had burst inside, butchered Talos with a few swift cuts and afterwards wrecked the place. Obviously, the hit was meant for Arsik himself, or as a warning, a reckoning… Retaliation for Phaelo’s beating.

Whatever the case, his friend was dead now, because of him.

Arsik harbored no grief for Talos. At first, he thought he felt nothing at all, but then realized he was wrong. He did feel something: disdain. While gazing at Talos’ awkward, gaunt body, he pondered on how truly pathetic he’d been in his life.

A relatively useless merchant, an islander born and bred, with no aptitude for a sailor’s life, no kind of experience in battle, alone after a failed marriage, childless and penniless. A complete disaster, miserable and unforgivable in Arsik’s mind, who stared at him resentfully. Him, the only man he could call a friend, but he couldn’t see that now.

All he saw was a man powerless to defend himself in an unfortunate situation, lying dead inside his own home, incapable of at least putting up a decent fight before the end – a victim, an easy target, a softie. A man who couldn’t hold his own in Saraport, not among those residents, the pirates, the thugs and the seafarers. He was extremely lucky to have survived this long; a circumstantial gift that had just expired. A life like his could have worth in another kingdom, perhaps in Lothen, in Sol or even Igros, but the islands of the South didn’t work this way, and they daily reminded you the reasons why.

Arsik wandered through the clutter until he reached the bed. The mattress had been sliced open and whatever coin had been hidden inside had disappeared, but he hardly cared about that. Grabbing a knife from the kitchen, he stabbed the floor with it, between the tiles. The blade wobbled and caught on the indentations. With enough pressure applied, a tile lifted with a puff of dust that, once dissipated, revealed a hiding spot under the floor.

Arsik buried his hand inside and fished out two objects. The first was a bottle of rum, almost full, a gift from Serana Perthis, Talos’ cousin from Loriax; a fine blend saved for a special occasion, that Arsik decided had just presented itself. The second object was a knife: short, with no protective ring on the bolster, a greenish blade with a metallic handle. Smooth, pale and lightweight, it had a single rune carved on its exact middle.

He brought it near his face, laid in his palm. Dimlight was Arsik’s most prized possession from his days at sea. The enchanted knife had come to his hands from the faraway village of Foglane, in the north of Lothen, through many trials and tribulations. The apple of his eye, Arsik treated it accordingly and had trusted Talos with its safekeeping – mainly so Arsik wouldn’t sell it while drunk or lose it in a game of dice.

Now we’re changing level in this game, he thought as he palmed it before sheathing it in his belt.

Standing up, he lodged the bottle’s cork in his mouth. The search for two teeth in enough proximity to allow him to bite the cork off proved a considerable struggle. When he finally succeeded, blood from his rotten gums oozed down the bottle, and he spat to get rid of it as quickly as possible. Revisiting the kitchen, he located a mug and poured the rum. Then, he snatched a big slice of cheese he found nearby and started eating and drinking while watching Talos.

A few uncomfortable mouthfuls later, he stood over the dead body, stretched his arm and tipped the bottle over, allowing approximately one glass of rum to be poured onto Talos.

“Don’t be shy, have some too,” he said around his bite. Setting the bottle on the counter, he scurried out of the house.