Ascadia: Titans of Men

By Donovan William Henry and Mickeal Tupper

Ascadia: Titans of Men is a fantasy novel that does what good fantasy novels doremembers history and our own human mythos. It reminds the reader that time creates a foggy glass to look through and that history, as with everything else, depends largely on perspective. This is the perspective of the supposedly uncivilized.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Feb 22, 2013
• ISBN: 9781466975903

Donovan William Henry

Donovan and Mickeal reside in Southern California with their families. Each is married to an amazing and brilliant woman. Proud fathers of true wonders, children for short. These men still get around to loving great stories and at times come together to write some. We thank you wholeheartedly for your time.

Book preview

Contents

Acknowledgements

Prologue I      A Telling

Saga I Meetings

I      A Care-Filled Meeting

II      Mother’s Legacy

III      Old Captain

IV      Fish Tale

V      Thoughts to Love

VI      Freeman’s Isle

VII      The Hunt

VIII      View

IX      Steel

X      What Comes After

Prologue II      A Titan’s History

Saga II Bonds

I      Fathers

II      Invitation to Manhood

III      A Son’s Love

IV      Old Tradition

V      What Passes for Dreams

VI      Captain’s Battle

VII      Missing Something

VIII      Life, Taste Fully

IX      Four Shadows

Prologue III      New Beginnings

Saga III Brotherhood

I      Healing

II      Enthrall

III      Open Your Eyes

IV      Creation

V      Impulses

VI      Red Sands and Slick Decks

VII      A Tribute

VIII      Beginning’s End

For Michelle, for being my lantern, even in those dark parts of me. And of course, for my Monster, a Turkey, and a Caca Poo Poo head of the highest order, Princess of Bearland, but most importantly, my Love.

—M.T.

To my beautiful wife Amy, without whom I would not be here. To my three children, thank you for your undying belief in me and also the belief that magic does truly exist.

—D.H.

Acknowledgements

Hi reader. We want to take a moment to tell you something. Thank you for buying, borrowing or browsing our book, but no matter how it got into your hands, thanks for reading even this much.

Prologue I

A Telling

The cliffs are slick with spray from the ocean as they always are, but the cold day holds no rain for him or the waiting audience. He easily traverses the somewhat treacherous path up to the bluff. The vast, wide surface of the bluff has his people’s symbol brazenly tattooed across it, made from white-and-cream stones from the isle on which it rests. As he nears the top, he hopes that none of his audience has fallen on their journey to this wonderful place.

It would not bode well, for some people still think in terms of omens and other such idiocy.

He climbs the last few carved steps, more handholds than steps, and stands atop the bluff. Briefly, he views his waiting audience, then turns from them and faces the sea.

Hello, old friend, he says in the direction of the crashing surf and the swell and crest of waves below him. The rise and fall of the water heaves like some improbably large being taking a breath just beneath its surface. He watches the retreating water meet the oncoming wave, but in this set, the water fiercely collides, launching in the air sheens of ocean mist to caress the dark face that watches its works and his surroundings.

You are nothing if not constant.

It is early, and the sun has begun its rise, full and unfiltered by the clouds of his day. He follows his quickly growing shadow as it crawls over the many rocks and crevices of the bluff, eventually enveloping the sitting audience he now faces.

Strange that the telling of this story has fallen to me to tell it.

With this statement, said seemingly only for the speaker’s benefit, he walks to the center of the sea bluff, letting the light from the sun flow past him. He stops in the middle of his people’s symbol, where his audience waits, and he speaks.

I haven’t had the pleasure to speak to any of you before, so as excited as you all feel, I am even more so. This is the first time that all of you will have heard this story in its entirety, and I for one am proud to be the one to tell it to you. The crowd of silent listeners seems to collectively hold its breath as he speaks. Without pause, he finishes as if he does not notice the reactions. You probably know me by many names and from many sources.

Sensing the growing anxiety from his listeners, he surveys his attendees, all looking up at him as they sit upon the ground in every possible fashion, each trying to find some comfort on its sharp and stony surface. Their faces are full of possibility, wonder, and yes, discomfort—a discomfort brought on only partially by the stones, the rest brought on by his presence.

Both will only get worse as the story is told.

With that thought, a smile bubbles to the surface of his face, like ancient air from a long-sunken ship drifting from the dark depths—at once there, and then not.

Many of you view this as an undertaking you are honor bound to accomplish, an act of tradition. This rite of passage will not be what you expect, for past proceedings were not told by me.

A shudder runs through his audience as if his words spoke of some impending torture.

You misunderstand me.

Kneeling to get more on a level with his audience, but with the understanding that his visage is one that carries with it a reputation, he offers his upturned palms to demonstrate his temporary harmlessness. Once at their level, he continues his attempt to make his point.

"This is something that someone else says we must do, and yes, I include myself in that statement intentionally, for this tale has been told many times but never by me. So we are all in this together for the first time, and before seeing your faces, I will admit I didn’t want to do it. Too bad for all of you that my face just adds to the burden that this has become

No laughs or even the crack of a smile is had at the slight jest, but undaunted, he carries on, knowing that he may never earn their trust.

". . . but seeing your faces makes me want to tell this story and makes me want to tell it well.

In the past, this story was told in this very place and all in one sitting, and it took place over a number of days. For some reason, it has always been told straight through, with no thought for rest and with no thought for comfort, as if being tired and cold would make the story better. I disagree, but as with listening to this story, and yes, you have a choice even in that, I offer you yet another. You do not know me, and you do not understand me, but that does not make me evil, but still, there is a price for what I will offer you now. You must answer a question.

The storyteller speaks those last words while gesturing behind him to a stack of dark blankets as well as trays of bread, cheese, fruits, and decanters of some steaming liquid. I have brought refreshment and blankets to ease your pains and have a question to put before you. Will you listen further?

The storyteller pauses to listen for protest but hears none.

"Gather now around you blankets and refreshment, but listen as you do, for now we begin. This tale in all previous attempts was begun with the tales of the first kings of Ascadia, Aric and Leif, in that order. I know it began as such because, well, I have eavesdropped on the tellings before this one.

"Don’t look so surprised. I’m sure you are not the only ears listening as it is unfurled this time, but as was the case when I stole a listen, it makes not a bit of difference.

When I deem it appropriate, we will dive back into the frigid waters of the distant past, but I will begin with what I believe to be a most interesting time in the history of Ascadia and a most interesting young man. He is but one of many in the story but one with an unfortunate name. His name, the one given to him by his father on his name day, which was four years after the birth of the child in those days, was Blackheart of the Storm, and it is with him we start.

Saga

I

Meetings

I

A Care-Filled Meeting

Any moment now, any moment now, I’ll be taken away. To be honest, I thought he’d find me sooner than this. Blackheart’s melancholy thoughts of his father are muddied by drinks he wanted, and made more so by those that found their way to him when he wasn’t looking. His voice, different and ruddier than he remembers, asks a passing maid for another cup. She smiles at his drunken smile, and he knows another drink will soon find its way to him.

The bar is a favorite of his when he is on the island of Grayshoal, which as of late has been too much. He has seen the bar pass through many hands in his brief time as a patron. The first owner was a man that was simply called Meza; his real name was something… something… Mezorian. It appears Blackheart’s mind is as muddied as his voice. One thing he takes pride in, and with good reason, is he remembers a person’s name when he is told it. What he does remember of something… something… Mezorian was his love of coin. He was a foreigner originally, that had passed to citizenship with some measure of respect. It was three captains that had vouched for Meza’s character to the king, not just the required one. Blackheart felt that it was because each owed the still enthralled, Meza money. Blackheart’s uncle would say that you would have to count your fingers after shaking the hand of a man like that. This thought makes its creator smile.

The bar is called the Care Full; Blackheart doesn’t know if it is because of where it’s located or because it is supposedly full of care. The sign swinging from a heavily rusted and rather ornate iron bracket displays small hands holding three overflowing mugs of a very refreshing and heady beverage. If that is the type of care this place is full of, Blackheart is now full of it as well. Its strange location is rumored to be responsible for at least twenty deaths since its birth some seventy-five years before. It originally started as these things do, as a home, but this one was made on the Northern cliffs of Grayshoal, just north of the castle walls but very much on the same very high, very dangerous cliffs. It is widely believed that the home was made on the cliffs because that is what a young bride wanted, and as the view is impossibly beautiful, that is understandable, but when the young bride’s husband passed, not as a result of a fall but a drowning—he managed to survive the fall— she could get no men to come courting. Her beauty had faded some over the years from the harsh winds and winters on the cliffs, and her curves had receded, and as the couple never had any children, it may be possible that her loins didn’t work.

To entice a mate, she began to work her brew craft to astounding results. Once she created her home brew, she gingerly took two quarter kegs down from her heights to be shared amongst men just returning from a ravage, a practice regularly performed by the more available ladies. Before leaving the men, who were very pleased by her samples, she told them to visit her, for she had not only more of this brew, but others that surpassed this one in taste, color, and health, like beer eclipses water. Her last words to them were to come to her and to be careful.

Another beer is placed on Blackheart’s table, which widens his smile; his thoughts on the barmaid’s beauty widen his smile further. The barmaid’s hips sway as she walks away, and her long, straight blonde hair sways with them, acting almost as an ass duster. This thought makes him burst into a short fit of laughter. The maid, unaware of any joke, glances back at him with a wondering and slightly self-conscious look. Blackheart, seeing doubt and possible pain on her face, gives her a loving smile and a flirtatious wink, one or both of which makes the lady smile in return, and the hips sway a bit more as she returns to the kitchen. Blackheart returns his attention to his new beer. He must have shook the table—which was a feat as it was a hand-thick, old dark oak, with a single stout barley twisted leg supported by four heavily carved feet—because the foamy head of his beer that was once just floating at the top of his mug has since spilled upon the heavy tabletop’s well-oiled surface. Slowly, but with more than a little practiced grace, Blackheart grasps the still very full mug, and without a shake to his arm or hand, takes another drink.

The second owner he met over a card table. This owner of the Care Full had acquired it after being rightfully accused of sleeping with Meza’s wife; the accuser was Meza himself. Benin, the accused, denied it and requested an old right that the devout call Bllor’s answer, where single combat determines the validity of a claim. Unfortunately for Meza, Bllor’s answer did not agree with him, and Benin became the new owner of both the wife and the bar after killing Meza. Blackheart had watched the fight, and Benin had the chance to spare Meza’s life and impose a fine upon him for falsely accusing him. He could have had the bar and all the coin Meza possessed, but he couldn’t have had his wife, so Meza died, and Blackheart was forced to watch and do nothing. He had liked Meza. Too bad Bllor’s answer can’t be heard through card playing; Meza was a much better card player than he was a fighter. Blackheart drains his mug and speaks in a subdued tone, You could have said no Meza. Did you really think that Bllor would help you win a fight that you couldn’t win just because you were right? Blackheart’s breath escapes his lips in a sigh.

Blackheart looks over the rim of his cup and seems surprised by its emptiness—empty except for a few strands of thick black hair that have escaped the leather binding meant to keep it back. Looking around the bar for the maid, whose name he knows to be Sherry—but he does not use it as it feels odd to call someone by their first name just because they bring you food and drinks—he sees that his cup is not the only thing that’s empty. The last time he looked further than the barmaid’s hips there were still some folks in this place, including good-natured Bart, the fisherman, who was asleep by the hearth. He must have wandered outside to relieve himself. Blackheart’s thoughts are hazy but still there and keep sending messages that he can’t seem to fully grasp. This series of thought is something like, Bart, fisherman, gone. This, he guesses, means something, but for the life of him, he can’t figure out what that is, so he carries on with his original plan; get another drink. He stands up slowly; he isn’t some novice drinker that just jumps from his seat to find himself rushed to drunkenness and then the floor. No, he takes his time and eases up to get a better look about the place.

It’s a dark bar, in its woods and stones that make up its construction as well as the near absence of light. Due to its location on the windy and sea-sprayed cliffs, the shutters are always lashed tightly closed. Again, the thoughts come unbidden: Bart, the fisherman, gone. But this time, before Blackheart gets the chance to work out the mystery, the heavy wooden door is thrown open, and what passes for daylight in Ascadia solves it for him. With the sound of the heavy door crashing open the whip of the wind comes in to extinguish the candle at his table, with an ease that mirrors things he doesn’t want to think about.

Standing, he turns to greet his father, who stands in the entry way—no, blocks the entry way. The outside is visible only through the space between his legs. They don’t call him the Sea Bear for nothing. Blackheart’s thoughts don’t bring a smile this time, but his act does, for he deals with his father repeatedly very much in the same way.

Daddy, I had hoped you would have found me earlier. I left word with many of your men about where I was to be found, but I guess they either did not pass it along, or you didn’t want to drink with your only living son. The leaving word bit was a lie, but if Blackheart could get some of his father’s men in the shoals, all the better. In either case, it is a tragedy, for I am quite far along, and it will be quite the chore for you to catch up. As he speaks, his father makes the necessary turn to fit through what would seem to be a wide door, and Blackheart observes him and their very different features. Blackheart is small for an Ascadian, at least in height as he is heavily muscled, but to think himself strong this close to his father is laughable, which he almost does. Blackheart’s hair is a dark black and his father Anunder’s, where it isn’t white with age, matches, but that at first glance is where the resemblance stops. Anunder’s features are square and rough, whereas Blackheart’s are sharp and arresting. Blackheart’s young face is unmarred by blade, hair, or blemish. His father’s skin carries with it a many lined story, one of violence. Anunder’s green eyes, which are very similar to his son’s, stare out unregretful from that face.

Hey there, handsome. Come have a drink with me. I was beginning to worry about you. Blackheart’s tone is one of seemingly genuine concern, his eyes the only thing betraying his real thoughts.

His father’s reply hides nothing; scorn drips off the words like water from a freshly pulled net, Tell your lies to someone who gives a shit, boy. Now pay your debt, and out with you. You have wasted enough of my time.

Papa, you wound me by thinking I need your reminder to pay my debts. Father, I always pay my debts. The last words were said as if to a child who forgot the most simplest of lessons and needed some gentle reminding.

I hear your words, boy. Now make good on them. Anunder stands to his full height; his eyes and serious manner remain unchanged. Blackheart’s disheartened thoughts creep into his no-longer-quite-drunk mind, for though he appears calm on the surface; his father’s presence alone is enough to cause his blood to boil and his heart to thrash in his chest. He does not fear me, and why should he? Well, I guess I shouldn’t waste an opportunity to anger him.

Daddy, let me tell you a joke. At his son’s sudden change of course, Anunder’s brow furls over his already heavily covered eyes, but before he can speak, Blackheart pushes on.

Come now, I know you love a good bawdy joke. As Blackheart speaks he notices that his father is not alone; in the doorway there are two heavy figures with robes soaked with spray and the fine drizzle that so often coats the islands and their inhabitants. The thick black robes, which have become synonymous with the priesthood of Bllor, are actually a dark-brown when they are dry, which isn’t often. Blackheart thinks of a tale told by his uncle of a time when there were no Priest’s of Bllor, just people that would argue incessantly over what Bllor’s teachings meant and how they should be practiced. Blackheart still doesn’t know if his uncle wished it was still that way or preferred it the way it is; stories of religion never kept Blackheart’s attention for long. Still, the presence of the priests causes him to lose his bearing for a moment, a small moment.

So you bring some of Bllor’s finest to drink with us? Very well. I’m afraid my joke isn’t as long as the ones they prefer, but they may find humor in it still. Blackheart motions for them to all take a seat at his table and then moves to get another chair from a nearby table; he stops his efforts when one of the priests speaks.

The voice is solemn as it poses the priest’s question and comes from the tallest of the men in robes. He is also the one standing furthest away from my father. Smart man.

"Blackheart of the Storm, what did you mean by the jokes we prefer? What might you think those are?"

Before the smirking young man can set the hook, his father’s voice thunders off the walls in an all too familiar admonishing tone; this time, though, it isn’t meant for his son.

Don’t climb into the whelp’s boat. He wants to sink it with you in it! Damn him, and piss on his joke! Boy, you can walk down these cliffs or be carried.

Yes, Daddy, you are right. This is about you and me, but now I find myself really wanting to tell this joke. Let me tell the joke, Father, and you will have no problems from me on these cliffs. They are dangerous enough without having to worry about someone else. After that though, I intend to appear very drunk, making the remainder of the walk a misery.

Blackheart stares at his father, who looks back with the same hate-filled eyes. Blackheart fills the silence with his words and closes the space between him and his father with carefree strides.

Why is it of the ten children you begot, because to call you Father and mean it would be a little too much, even for a joke, unless of course that was the joke. Eyes still locked with Anunder’s, Blackheart lifts his cup and finds it empty before continuing. Back to this joke though. Why of the ten children am I the only one left alive? Having made his way to his father, he now stands just beneath his gaze and pauses just long enough to meet it. Give up? It’s because you love me Daddy.

Quickly, but not quickly enough, Blackheart stands on his toes, purses his lips, and attempts to kiss his father on the lips. He is met on the way by his father’s forehead, which crashes into his lips and teeth. Blackheart gets the mental picture of himself trying to kiss a mountain ram as it lives up to its name. I have had better ideas.

Knowing what comes next, Blackheart throws his arms up in defense of the right cross that follows the headbutt. The blow rushes through his arms as if they were made of reeds and finds his chin, but his arms were not his only strategy. Rolling to the right with its force lessens the power of the punch somewhat, but it still nearly takes him to the ground. An arm, which had not quite done its duty previously, finds its way to lead a hand to the ground, keeping him from completely falling. Anunder’s heavy steps are in sync with the terrible pounding inside Blackheart’s head, jaw, and teeth. This is the most physical pain he has ever felt; in a life riddled with specks of violence, this moment screams out its position as king of the hill, and it wants Blackheart to scream its presence or cower at its creator. Not much of one to follow directions, the young man stands up with a bloody smile to mask his discomforts and watches, with the beautiful green eyes of his father, pain’s approach.

Laughing nonchalantly, as if to a joke still unsaid, Blackheart finishes telling his own.

That’s just the half of it Daddy. Do you get why that is a bawdy joke? Because, now we both feel dirty. Get it Father? Our love for each other makes us feel dirty! As he finishes telling the joke laughter erupts from Blackheart—until his father’s fist attempts to push its way through Blackheart’s stomach and out his back. The force of the strike lifts Blackheart from his feet, and before he can get back to them, his father disdainfully shoves him back. The young man, bloodied, forced to breathlessness, and now horribly off-balance, feels like falling, but he just can’t let himself. His arms never spin about in an attempt for some type of featherless flight; they hang loosely at his side, relaxed. His feet and legs though—that is another matter.

Closer to falling than he is standing, his legs begin thrusting him back as if he is pushing an invisible cart with his legs, his back pushing against its low aft side. Unfortunately, this low, invisible, and imaginary cart is also light because he strikes the stone wall behind him fast but, more importantly, hard. A thought ripples through the desire for panic—a panic that numerous blows of this type have trained him to resist. The thought, I wonder why that didn’t knock the breath back into me?

Back against the wall, but ass off the ground, he looks at his father and calmly wills air back into his lungs. When he thinks them full, he attempts to speak, but only a weak hiss passes his lips. Anunder walks forward, coming within an arm span, which, for him, is quite a sizable arm span, of his son. Blackheart’s words are stronger this time, and it is obvious by his father’s look of deliberation, a look not normally assumed by his father, that his words are heard.

Why hadn’t you killed me before this, Father?

Anunder steps forward deliberately but not slowly and slowly kneels before his son, though not deliberately. Anunder’s voice is alien to Blackheart as it floats to him, and it takes a moment to register why. The air that caresses Blackheart’s face from his father’s words is that, a caress. He isn’t yelling or showing false enthusiasm. This is what it would be like to talk to my father.

I saw strength in you. You had survived so much. At times, I thought you would be strong.

The simple compliment nearly brings tears to young eyes that had learned not to do that. The tears that fog his eyes but do not fall are a reminder that he still wants his father’s approval; after all that his father has done, he still wants a pat on the head from him. This thought is an even bigger advocate for the tears, and they may have come, but a chance, any chance for him to not go to sea with his Father and go to his aunt would sink with the first tear drop. His voice, though, emotes perfectly what he is truly feeling.

Father, my aunt, your brother’s sister is dying. Let me go to her. She has been like a mother to me. Do not take this one from me too. Let me go, and you will never have to hear from me again, ever. I won’t challenge your nobility. I don’t want it.

Anunder rises from his kneeling position, and his censuring look speaks before the words pass his lips.

There are bigger fish than you, boy. You are just the chum in the water. Now up and remember your word. Your joke has been told.

Blackheart of the Storm brushes himself off as he also rises and walks resignedly toward the bar. He feels his father’s stare, but on he walks, full of cares but almost none he can take care of, save one. He calls to the barmaid he knows to have escaped to the kitchen. After the second call from him, she stands in the open doorway to the kitchen, fear and nervousness about her like fog. Blackheart attempts to dissuade her fears with a smile; what he forgets is that it is a bloody smile. The piece of cloth that she was using in the kitchen now finds its way to Blackheart’s swollen lips. Fear melts from her and becomes pity for him. Hades, I’ll take it. At least now she isn’t worried for her life and can listen.

Sherry, it appears that my father intends to use me as bait for some mighty fish, and as I have never liked fishing, I don’t intend to let him, but regardless of the outcome, especially as it seems bleak for me, I wanted to give you the bar on a condition: that you don’t change its name and that you are careful. It’s had a string of bad owners recently, but I think you can break that trend. Do you agree to this conditions?

Lord, you can’t give me this, I…

Nonsense. It is mine to give, and we have here fine priests of Bllor who can stand witness to these words, can you not?

The priest that had not yet spoken speaks now, but unlike the other priest’s, this one’s voice is one that carries little and sounds like that of a broken man. Blackheart finds himself wishing the other had agreed to bear witness.

He jests when he insinuates his father intends to kill him, but it is a dangerous venture he is undertaking. A young man earning his steel is quite a perilous undertaking, so it is probably prudent his living wishes are known and carried out if he is to pass. By Bllor, I bear witness to his words.

Blackheart looks to the other priest, and though he can’t see the eyes through the darkness made by the deep cowl of his robe, he knows they are looking at him. The hooded figure nods, and Blackheart of the Storm makes the assumption he feels he must, that this man will honor his lackey’s promise. But I’ll still tell anyone I see on my way down the cliffs of my gift. Just in case. A few words in just a pair of ears around here, and all the isles will be buzzing with it in no time. Blackheart’s smile for Sherry is one of hope but not for himself. Turning, he dons his own hood, walks past his father and through the door to the bar that was once his, and steps out into the morning.

II

Mother’s Legacy

Looking to the east from the clifftop that he thinks of as his own, Djorn stares in the direction as if for the first time. Soon, he will be seeing it from further than he has ever been. As a fisher’s son, he is familiar with his home’s waters but not much further beyond the shoals that protect Grayshoal. He watches as a ship, which will make up a part of the ravaging party he is about to join, enters a wall of low-hanging fog and disappears. Very uncharacteristically, his thoughts are like the fog, wispish, jumbled, and streaked with a myriad of feelings. Already it has gone further east than I have ever been, and the voyage has not even truly begun, at least not for me.

His tumultuous thoughts are interrupted by a warm caress to his cheek. A heat radiates from the soft that is his mother’s hand. His hand, in turn, returns the caress. Turning to look down the arm and into the eyes of his mother, he finds the sheen of tears covering eyes of azure. Looking into his mother’s eyes reminds him of his father’s tales of far-off waters, waters his father claims are warm.

Son, his mother’s voice holds no hint of the sadness her watery eyes portent, but drifts to him in her feathery, admonishing tone. The one she uses when she wants attention but does not want to argue, or when she wants her children to do as she says, but wants them to be who they are. Djorn’s thoughts, still ruffled, slip in before his mother can continue. Which one is it this time, Mother? Or has the tone found a new meaning? Djorn, by Bllor, you haven’t left me yet, so you had better get that mind of yours out of the waves and hear me.

The smile that forms and then washes away the cares on Djorn’s face is one that slips into place like water into a bowl, smoothly and eagerly, almost overflowing. His mother’s cares break as well; her son has always had that affect, but she is still a mother, and it is because he is the best of her and his father that she must warn him.

I have separated you from your brother and sisters. At the mention of them, Djorn looks over his mother’s shoulder to see his little brother and not-so-very-little sisters standing some spans away from the rest of the family, presumably out of reach of the words his mother intends to speak. Noticing his distraction, his mother steps into his eyesight once again, but now her eyes bear a hint of irritation. Djorn’s smile surfaces, and its ripples pass to his mother, causing her to smile and the tears to once again form.

Stop that. Her words are coarse with potential tears but edged with jovialness. I’m trying to be serious.

Look at that, there’s a first time for everything, Djorn’s father, standing just behind his mother, relates in his comic style, slowly delivering the words but incredibly amused. Djorn’s father is the first to laugh at his own jokes, and that, to Djorn, makes them all funny.

Quiet, you, lest you forget you’ll be staying with me, and as it’s always cold on Grayshoal, and no other woman would sleep with you, I’d recommend you be nice.

Marna, dear…

Braham, love, the next words out of you had better be ‘I’ll shut my trap now.’

Marna, Djorn’s mother, had turned her head up and around just enough to see her husband’s eyes as she spoke. Braham smiles down at his not-much-shorter but much-younger and far-more-attractive wife and finishes his interruption with his wife’s suggestion, a tinge of his smile on every word.

Marna’s full attention returns to her son, but now the tears are completely gone as if the levity provided by her husband and the control she was able to gain help her in a situation where she has very little say, and if she says it wrong, it may have dire repercussions for her son. She treads lightly, but tread she does.

We have spoken on this already, but it is important for what I must say later for you to realize what an honor it is for a captain to call upon a sailor he wants for a crew member. I have heard tales of it happening but met no one that it has truly happened to. I say this to you knowing, my son, that you will not let it affect you.

Of course not, mother. I don’t even know why he asked after me.

It could be many things, but I believe, whatever the reason, Captain Olivander has only good intentions for you and bears no grudge against this family. Your father and I spent much time with the captain on his visit and more time since, trying to ensure that.

Djorn’s smile grows as he speaks, I feel like a kept man.

His mother marvels again at her son’s ease and confidence. These things that would send a man his age screaming into a rage in a fit of misplaced shame; he feels no more than he would a breeze.

Son, begins his mother in a tone of seriousness that he has never heard before in her voice. He has heard her angry before, really angry, at him, but this is concern, and to a degree, that causes concern in him. These men want you with them, but they will turn on you if you stand in the way of what they want. Before his lips can break their seal, Djorn’s attempt to speak is cut off by his mother.

You have the best of hearts, my son, and so often, that is beneficial, no matter what others say, but in this, it is a detriment. I know why you must go. To be a man and have the rights of an Ascadian male, you must earn your steel, and you can do it because, although I have always wanted you to pass without harm from this stage, your father has done his duty and prepared you for it. But he has not prepared you for all of it. Like me, he too had hoped in his heart that… A tear slips down his mother’s alabaster cheek; its travel down the beauty of that face causes even its owner pause.

I fear we have done you some disservice, son, by keeping the harsher things from you in our hopes that they would never touch you—as if ignoring them would make them disappear. The very thing we tried to instill in you children not to do, we are so terribly guilty of, and now, like all attempts to hide from your troubles end, so too does this one.

Djorn reassuringly and gently takes his mother’s hand in his own as he speaks, Mother, please.

No, my love, you must listen and not to alleviate my guilt at not having said these things before but because I have much to teach you in a very short time and I want you to come home to us. Djorn, still holding her hand, nods to his mother slowly and with deference. All men will act differently when they are with other men. As you add men to the group, the group will have less and less sense. Djorn, somewhat shocked at his mother’s outlook, looks to his father, who stands so close to his wife that they are almost one. From his father, he receives only a look that affirms what his mother speaks until his father suddenly seems to have uncovered some truth of his own and blurts it forth, and what a torch in the dark it is for his son.

It is worse when we are young, far worse. The last is said with an accompanying nod of his head.

Djorn’s chuckle at his father’s response is almost inaudible—almost. The fast exhalations from his nose and the slight shake of his midsection are the real indicators that he found the comment amusing. Djorn’s humor is quickly spoiled when he once again looks down at his mother, who is now glaring up at him. Her words no longer contain a hint of her normal patience.

Some men act differently when on these ravages. They use being away to act on any and all thoughts that come to them, and some of these are quite vile.

These words wash away Djorn’s smile and his light mood. They confuse him, and his mind rushes to do what it does best, find out why. She knows you better than this. She isn’t talking about you, but you can assume nothing.

Mother, I don’t believe I will act any differently than I do now. I cannot say for certain as I have never done this before but. With a gentle squeeze of his forearm, Marna interrupts her son.

You know I wasn’t speaking of you, so why are you wasting your breath? His returning smile answers his mother, and she continues treading what she finds to be a dark and thick liquid, one for which she has no taste for but must continue to swallow.

I can no longer afford to fish the stream. It’s time to make my way to open water.

Djorn knows the proverb well enough; it is among the many that his father uses, but he has never heard his mother use it. Djorn wonders, and not for the first time, if it is how her old family became Ascadian that keeps her from speaking like one.

You will be witness to many things I would wish none of my children to ever have to see, but it is the way of the Ascadian people. Braham, upon the speaking of these words, slowly but most assuredly looks down toward the ground. Is that shame my father wears? But he did not make my mother a thrall or take her from her family’s people. Her family was made Ascadian three generations ago. Curious as he is, he does not interrupt his mother again.

Djorn, you cannot help these people, and trying will get you killed by your own crewmen. As she speaks the emotion-torn words, she takes his hand once again into her own and squeezes it tightly as if to add some emphasis to her words. Djorn returns his mother’s gaze and matches her squeeze as he speaks.

Mother, once some time ago, when I was just a little older than my brother, on this very cliff, we watched as another ravage group was leaving. That day, you told me that it is hard to do the right thing and that it can be painful to do so but that it is still the right thing to do. You were right then, and I will do right now.

My son, I don’t want to be right.

But you are.

Djorn releases his mother’s hand and retrieves the gear lying at his feet, a rather large haversack filled with what Djorn deems as necessities and a fire-hardened wooden spear. Throwing his sack’s strap over a shoulder, Djorn steps up to the cliffside, a treacherous path he has used as his personal way to the docks for more years than his brother has been alive, tells his mother and father what he had spoken to his siblings less than half a watch before.

This is not good-bye.

His father nods his agreement, but Marna picks up a familiar battle between herself and her son, about the treacherous path that she knows he intends to take down the cliffside and one he uses behind her back but never in her view. Son, I hate it when you go down that way. Take the real path. The tone of Djorn’s reply is one of obsequence, but it is said as he steps from the cliff.

Mother, this is my path.

* * *

I see—no pun intended—that staring into a woman’s eyes is, and will probably remain, a theme of my storytelling. So be it. That must have been what we did then, and that’s what he was doing as the story continues, so that is how it will be told. The he I speak of is a young man named Van Oen, and the eyes he was so longingly gazing into were those of his wife Nel. He was saying his goodbyes at the docks, not so far from where we sit now and within easy sight of the cliff that Djorn now dangerously traverses.

* * *

Green-tinged eyes laced with flecks of gold remind him so much of the flower that looked so much like the sun. Her eyes are like those sunflowers. The deeper you look, the more details arise—brown, green, and golden centers with ribbons of firelight-gold streaming from them. He had spied the flower while on his first ravage in a land much warmer than his own. If not for his lust for steel and his desire to bring nothing back but what could help his and his soon-to-be wife’s future, he would have brought her one.

You have the sun in your eyes. Do you think then that it is our son you have in your belly?

My always-romantic husband, a son it is, but as to who the father may be, we will never know.

With a chuckle still escaping him, he kisses his wife and lingers at her lips to enjoy the soft and warmth there. The joy of that is broken by another uproar from the ship standing not far enough down the pier. On two previous occasions, when the lovers had chosen to kiss, they were cheered on and instructed in various ways about what came next by Van Oen’s shipmates. Those times the jeers stopped when the kissing stopped; this time, it was still going even after the kiss had ended. Van Oen, gesturing with a tilt of his head and with a somewhat-embarrassed smile, relates his feelings to his wife.

Why is it that when men get together, they act like complete idiots? Add alcohol, and it gets worse, and after the briefest of pauses, the time it took him to realize that he was bailing water into the boat, he adds, and the older they are, the worse it gets.

Careful, husband, you’re a member of that party.

True, but… before Van Oen can finish, the raucousness intensifies its volume.

Looking back toward the men he will all too soon be spending far too much time with, he prepares to unleash some scalding words. Although he is currently the youngest member of the ship’s crew, he has quickly become well respected as having fast and strong hands as well as words. The latter, to his surprise, has served him far more often and better than the former. It is this talent he intends to use now but cuts himself short when he realizes that the men are looking above and beyond where he and Nel stand.

Following what he believes to be the revelers’ gaze, he looks down the long pier, past the shorter one that extends horizontally when looking from the direction he is in currently, past the beach where many fishermen launch their small craft and where the town’s proper road meets the hard-pack sand of the beach. Past the beach, he hits the cliffside that separates this beach from another, with a high wall of stone, twelve arm spans in height and made