Alos turned away and stalked toward his cabin aft, and Egil, shaking his head and sighing, clambered down the ladderway to the waiting sloop below. He reached the deck and made his way aft to the tiller, then called up, "Prepare to cast off bow and stern."
Captain Holdar repeated the order to his crew up on the carrack.
"Cast off the stern," called Egil.
"Wait!" came a cry. Then Alos appeared above, his meager belongings bound in a bedroll. The old man peered down over the railing and declared, "I'll sail with you on your mad quest as far as Jutland, but no more, you hear me, no more."
Three days later on the evening tide the Brise sailed into the crowded Jutlander port of Koniginstadt; ships rode at anchor throughout the bay and were tied up at dockside as well, a forest of masts jutting into the air like a barren thicket of trees. Among these ships wended the sloop, heading for the pier where flew the flag of the harbormaster, Alos at the helm, Egil and Arin handling the sheets, Aiko on the bow ready to cast a mooring rope to the hands lounging dockside.
And in the distance on a lofty hill beyond the sprawling city and above the bay, they could see a massive citadel, bright lanterns on the fortress walls, the windows of the castle within glowing yellow in the lavender twilight.
"There it is, love," said Egil to Arin, "the lair of the Queen of Jute, where we will find the mad monarch's rutting peacock… or so I sincerely hope."
CHAPTER 3 7
They paid the harbormaster a small docking fee and moved the Brise to the designated slip, where they packed a few of their goods and battened down the ship. Debarking, they trudged along a main thoroughfare up from the docks and into the city, passing among warehouses and fish markets and shops of crafters, many closed, though here and there workers yet toiled at tasks. They finally came in among taverns and stores and other businesses, all with dwellings above, and here the streets were awash with people, revelers and hawkers, with shops alit.
As they moved among the crowds, Aiko frowned. "Why do some wear iron collars?"
"They are thralls," replied Egil.
"Slaves?" asked Aiko.
Egil nodded. "Thralls, serfs, slaves: they go by many names. Their ancestors likely were defeated in battle and taken in bondage long past."
Arin shook her head. "Yet the defeat echoes down through the generations, for their children and children's children are slaves as well."
"There are serfs in Ryodo," said Aiko. "Yet they wear no iron about their necks."
Egil shrugged. "Most are born to the collar and will wear it throughout their life."
"Is there no way they can gain their liberty?"
"Once in a great while a thrall will win his freedom, through valor in battle or other high service to his master. Then, with grand ceremony, the iron is stricken and given to the man or woman as a symbol of their liberty. Yet for most, the only way to lose the collar is to lose one's head."
Arin sighed. "Long past, Elvenkind learned that slavery is a great evil, and one day mankind will come to know it as well."
Egil made a few inquiries, and finally the four took a large room in the Silver Helm, one of Koniginstadt's numerous inns, modest by any measure, for they did not wish to call attention to themselves. Yet the mere fact that a Dylvana had come to the inn was enough to cause tongues to wag. Moreover, accompanying her was a yellow woman who seemed to be a warrior, no less, and wasn't that a wonder? And with these two came a pair of men-human males, that is, and not Elves: the younger of the two was a man with a red eye patch and a fresh scar down his forehead and cheek; the second was an oldster, another one-eyed man. And when these four strangers took to the same chamber and ordered hot baths, tongues wagged all the faster, for who knows what might go on behind their closed door?
Bathed and refreshed, they came down to the common room for a hot meal, and each had a mug of ale-all but Alos, that is, for although the oldster could eat whatever he wished, Aiko would not allow him even the tiniest sip of brew, no matter how pitifully he whined. And so the old man had to settle for honeyed, spiced tea to wash down his biscuits and mutton stew.
As they ate, all eyes followed their every move, patrons whispering among themselves in wild speculation:
Look at her, a tiny thing. An Elf she is, but taller I thought them.
Ja, a Dylvana she is one. The Lian it is who are tall.
The yellow one now, no Elf is she, but tell me, now, what land do you name her from?
Land I know not but a fighter she is, swords at her waist.
The young one-a fighter he is as well. See down his face the scar.
He could a duel have got it in.
Ja. Maybe a noble he is, a lady Elf he travels beside.
The yellow woman do not forget. The scar he bears she could have made, her blades carving his face.
Nie, I think not. A full head taller is he.
The old man and the younger, together they travel. Uncle and nephew they could be.
If so, in the family one-eyes run, har!
My tongue would I hold if I were you, and not the old man get angry-a curse he would lay upon you.
A Wizard he is, ja?
Nie, but a man with an evil eye… white and all does it glare.
The one with the red patch and scar a wide berth I would give. That axe at his waist your head he would lop.
On went the mumble and buzz concerning the foreigners, but then, mercifully, a bard stepped to the center of a meager stage and amid a scattering of applause, the patrons left off their speculations and turned his way. He raised up a small tambour and announced, " 'Gurd and the Monster Kram.' " A cheer greeted his words, followed by devout silence as he began intoning a sing-song chant to the beat of his tiny drum-a tale of a young warrior's hard-won victory over a terrible Drake.
Arin shook her head at the outrageous claims made by the words of the ode, and turning to Egil she asked, "Is this epic sung widely?"
Egil leaned forward and in a low voice replied, "Indeed it is, my love. Although most folks, including me, do not believe a Drake has ever been slain by the hand of a man, it does not in any way quench the wild popularity of the ode."
"Hmm," mused Arin, raising an eyebrow and tilting her head toward the bard. "Even though it is a saga treasured by those who hear it, I would suggest he not cant it to a Dragon."
Egil bellowed out a guffaw, then clamped his lips to stifle his laughter, though he snorted through his nose. A nearby patron glared at Egil, but then turned his rapt attention back to the bard. Smiling, Arin looked up at Egil and waggled a finger in admonishment, but then had to stifle her own laughter. It took some moments for them to gain control of themselves as the bard astage continued the epic to the beat of his small drum.
"I used to play one of those," said Alos, tapping his fingers in time.
"A tambour?" asked Aiko, her eyes wide, as if she never had considered Alos anything but a drunk.
"Yar, but where he uses his hands, I would use a cruik instead."
"Cruik?"
"A curved stick with a knob on the end to strike the drumhead. At least, that's what it's called in the Jillian Tors, where I first learned to play."
"Unh," grunted Aiko, noncommittally.
The bard finished his chant to enthusiastic applause, the patrons calling for more. "Mayhap he'll do 'Snorri Borri's Son and the Mystical Maid of the Maelstrom,' " said Egil.