Gateway To The Gods

By Cross Paul Stevan

Stefan Duboir a loner and misfit who finds his life is turned upside down when he is transported into a strange new world. He is thrown into the middle of a battle for an ancient kingdom and his journey takes him through the pain and suffering of war, mixed with the emotions of love and loss. 

Is he alone in this world or has history

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stevan Paul Cross
• Release date: Mar 6, 2020
• ISBN: 9781916377929

Book preview

Preface

31st January 2011

Daily Herald

Coroner Delivers Verdict: Death by Misadventure

Reporter: Tom Devlin

Stefan Duboir, who disappeared on his way to work, has been officially declared dead by the coroner.

Following a thorough investigation by the police, it was determined the most likely cause of death was drowning in the local river Wriser; he was last seen on the morning of 6th November 2010.

Stefan was nineteen years of age, an only child, sadly orphaned at the age of eight following the death of his mother after a prolonged battle with cancer.  When Stefan was just six months old, his father had disappeared while out walking and had been declared dead some months later; the verdict had been death by misadventure as he was presumed to have drowned whilst walking along the banks of the river Wriser. There had been no evidence of foul play and no body has yet been recovered.

I reported the death of Robert Duboir, the famous author, back in 1992; it was my first assignment for the Herald and a story that had more questions than answers.

Having heard of his son’s death in what, on the surface, seemed identical circumstances, I decided to take a deeper look into the incident and compare them using my notes from eighteen years ago.

Having talked to many locals, I found out that Stefan was well known in his home town of Fordenham, but sadly, most often for the wrong reasons. It became apparent to me while digging into his background that he had had a troubled past and, from all accounts, he had continued to be a man who didn’t fit in; a non-conformist with a police record that started when he was as young as ten, when he committed a number of minor offences.  Stefan joined the Forces at sixteen and so began a chequered career.

Stefan was proud to be a Royal Marine and, from talking to his battalion, I discovered that he was a highly accomplished and competent soldier. Honoured on two tours of duty in Afghanistan for his part in skirmishes with insurgents in the Helmand province, he was the battalion’s champion for archery and the reigning middleweight boxing champion for all the services.

Sadly, his career also had a dark side. Regularly on charge during his three years of service, he engaged in constant brawling over petty disputes and often disobeying orders when in the field of combat.

In the end, his career abruptly ended when he was charged and subsequently found guilty of GBH, striking an officer repeatedly whilst out on patrol. He offered no defence for his actions and, as a result, he was dishonourably discharged.

A Sergeant Phillips, who knew him well, held Stefan in high esteem; he respected him as a great soldier and good friend. Moreover, he owed him a debt of gratitude for saving his life, as did many others from the battalion, as Stefan had been instrumental in rescuing comrades on more than one occasion.

Furthermore, he was disgusted by his discharge and felt it was a miscarriage of justice. These were not just his own thoughts, but those of many of his comrades who felt the same way. (No others would be quoted, wishing to remain anonymous as they were still serving in the Royal Marines).

Since returning to his home town, Stefan had taken what casual work he could find, often being seen working as a bouncer for a local nightclub.

Stefan was only 5’9" but well built, a fitness fanatic often seen running in the local woods and a regular at the gym. Having learned how to handle himself during his time in the Forces, he was well equipped for his role as a bouncer.

He was popular at the nightclub with owners and customers alike. In fact, the landlord spoke very highly of him, even though at one point he had had to reprimand him for threatening a colleague. On this matter, he would say no more.

So, what did happen to Stefan Duboir that day in November and what are the similarities to his father’s disappearance eighteen years before?

Next week, I will reveal all the evidence in both cases and will share a strange encounter at the scene of his disappearance. Believe me, it’s stranger than fiction.

*********************

Chapter 1

Stefan was not in the best of moods today. It was the anniversary of his father’s disappearance - a day which was to change his life forever.

Eighteen years had passed since his father had left home for the last time, never to return.

Robert Duboir went for his usual morning walk, strolling through the woodland at the end of the road and down to the river, a regular daily routine. Stefan’s mum would say it helped him get into the right mood for the day ahead. Woe betide us all if he missed his walk, as his temper would be unbearable. Stefan’s dad, it would seem, was not the happiest soul around, but his mother loved him nonetheless. She had never got over the loss of her soulmate.  Every year, on the anniversary of his disappearance, she visited the exact spot by the river and cast out a bouquet of red roses in his memory, always praying to God for his safe return.  Right up till the day she died, Isabelle never gave up, despite the coroner declaring Robert dead following a prolonged investigation, and delivering a verdict of death by misadventure.  No, not my Robert, he’s still alive. I just know it, she would say.

Stefan dutifully kept up the tradition in honour of his mum, and today was no different from other anniversaries. He made his way down the High Street to Raymond’s flower shop; this was a pretty little shop with small-paned windows, just like Dickens’ Old Curiosity Shop.

The old doorbell chimed as the door creaked open and Stefan stepped in. It was like walking into a Victorian museum, with dark oak panels and shelves stacked with dozens of buckets filled with flowers of all varieties and colours.  At the back of the shop stood a well-worn, oak-panelled counter with a glass front, which had nothing modern on it. There was no till and most definitely no card machine.  The shopkeeper, Raymond, used an old tatty green cash box. It was cash only in his shop. I’m not paying the banks to have my money!  he would say. Bloody leeches!

Raymond really didn’t care much for the twenty-first century and chose to live in his own happy place, a world all of his own.

Stefan liked Raymond and empathised with him; after all, he too would prefer life to be more like the olden days rather than this hideous modern rat race. 

Good morning, young Stefan! You know, you look more and more like your dad every time I see you; same stocky build, same green eyes and brown wavy hair, oh, and the same temper from what I hear! Your dad was a grumpy bugger at times but he had a good heart and would help anyone he could.  Oh, and his books; they are sorely missed.  Always a great read they were; his ability to bring the past to life in words was exceptional.

Robert Duboir was renowned for his historical fiction, a blend of real events and fictional characters; his most famous work was the epic tale of Charles De La Roux, a medieval sea captain who was a successful French privateer in the 16th century.

Well, Stefan, I guess you’ve come in for the flowers?  Sadly, it’s that time of year again.

Yes please, Raymond. Have you done them as I ordered?

Of course, same as always, a bouquet of red roses for Robert and a bouquet of blue lilies for Isabelle.

Stefan handed over two fifty-pound notes, smiled at Raymond and said, Keep the change and thanks again.

You take care of yourself, lad, and try to stay out of trouble for a change. It’ll do you good to settle down for a bit.

I am trying my best, Raymond. I promise you.

Stefan made his way along the High Street, turning left into Orchard Close. At the end was a narrow footpath that led through the woods and down to the river. This was the very same path his father had taken all those years ago. It was now quite overgrown, very muddy and narrow, but after a few hundred yards it opened out into the woods.

Stefan loved the woods, especially at this time of year. It was late autumn and the damp, mossy, smoky smell of rotting vegetation was as good as any perfume to him.

He found a great sense of peace and calmness when walking alone in the woods; just as his father had done before him.

Stefan ambled along the path, with a carpet of gold and red leaves beneath his feet; the trees were tall, laid bare by the autumn winds. The branches now hung like great skeletons, their long bony fingers casting strange shadows across the golden floor as if they were stretching out to grab an unsuspecting mushroom or toadstool that had broken through to seek out the faint autumn sun.

All around him squirrels were scurrying, making last-minute sorties to stock up their winter stores, stopping every few seconds and looking around as if checking the time and then scooting off in a twitching frenzy, sniffing and scraping in the undergrowth. It was a race to beat the seasonal clock of winter. It was looming fast and time was pressing, so the stores must be full. Scurry, scurry, scurry, they went.

Stefan smiled to himself; ‘God, I wish life was as simple as a squirrel’s’.  He continued to trudge along the muddy path, flowers in hand. Now he could hear the whoosh of the rolling river which was full to bursting from the autumn storms, thundering and winding its way to the sea. The wind was cold and gusting down the valley, whipping the river into a frenzied torrent.

Stefan always went to the same spot every year, a small headland on a bend in the river, where a solitary oak tree hung out over the bank as if it was taking a drink; the tips of the branches were immersed in the rolling waters.

This was the place where his father’s footprints had come to a halt, and where the police had found fibres from his clothes as evidence. He had been out on the branch overhanging the river, but strangely there was no evidence of him returning to the path.

Sitting down on an old familiar tree stump just opposite the headland, Stefan closed his eyes and prayed for his parents.  He hoped they were now together again in heaven and happy; he asked God for a sign that they were with him.  He was just about to end his prayer when he heard a rustling sound coming from behind a cluster of trees. He had sensed for some time that he was being watched.

Hey, over there! Come out whoever you are and stop skulking around.  ‘It’ll be kids messing about,’ he thought. Show yourself or I’ll come in there and drag you out! he added.  Nothing; it was silent. The rustling had stopped, so he got up, dashing over to the trees, and shouted, Come out, you little buggers! If I catch you, I’ll give you a good hiding. 

When he got there, no one was about but he did find what looked like cigar ash dotted around the bottom of a tree along with some footprints from bare feet.  ‘How odd,’ he thought. Furthermore, there was no sign of the footprints beyond the base of the tree in any direction.  Hmmm, well, whatever it was must have scrambled up the tree and bloody quickly.  He stood back and scanned the canopy carefully. Nothing. Not a squirrel nor a bird. Bizarre.  Whatever it was had disappeared into thin air or else Stefan was going mad.

Returning to the river, somewhat confused and feeling uneasy, he picked up the flowers and without thinking he climbed out onto the branch overhanging the river. He had never done this before. He had always feared the river and the branch his father had been on but for some reason, this time felt different. He was no longer scared; somehow, he was being drawn out onto it, and before he knew it, he was sitting on the branch and right out over the river just as his father had done all those years ago.

Stefan finished his prayers and leant over the branch, tossing the bouquets into the swirling water. He looked down to watch them float away, when out of the corner of his eye he spotted something. It was a bottle spinning around in a small eddy right below the branch, no more than four or five feet away. He could see it had a note inside; wow it’s a message in a bottle! So, curious as to who may have sent it and how far it had come, he decided he must try and grab it.

He reckoned if he hung down by his legs, he would be able to easily reach it or at least force it to the bank where it would surely snag against the log that had got wedged just a little further downstream.

He wrapped his legs tightly around the branch, slowly and carefully rotating his body around to the underside, and gripping tightly with his arms. Now, he must let go of the branch and dangle down towards the water; steeling himself, he gingerly unlocked his grip, finger by finger, and let go of the branch. With his heart racing, he tightened the grip of his thighs using all the strength in his muscles. Until the bark was cutting into his skin. It felt like agony, but determined to reach the bottle, he gritted his teeth and stretched out as far as he could. Nearly there now, only a few more inches, one last effort and it was his.  Stretching every sinew, the eddy was now getting much bigger and rotating faster and faster, forcing the bottle out of his reach. Concentrating hard on the bottle and rotating his head in time with the swirling, he tried to gauge when it would pass by close enough to grab it, three… two… one…lunge. 

Oh shit! He began to feel dizzy; his head was spinning and his eyes felt like they were about to pop out of their sockets. Oh, f**k.  Losing his grip, Stefan descended head first.

The eddy was now a huge whirlpool, a maelstrom. He was now completely disorientated and feeling really sick, just like after your first drinking session, when you close your eyes and everything starts to spin.

The shock of the cold water brought Stefan quickly to his senses.  There was no point in trying to swim away from the whirlpool - it was much too powerful. Trapped like a spider in the bath, doomed to be sucked down the plughole, he felt there was no way out but down the drain, when all of a sudden, the spinning stopped and Stefan came bobbing up to the surface, bottle in hand. No whirlpool, no thundering river; just Stefan and the bottle, floating. Suddenly all was calm.

Still a bit dizzy and feeling quite sick he gathered his senses and looked around for land. It was pitch black, but how could that be? ‘It’s not possible,’ he thought. ‘It was late morning when I fell in, now there is a full moon.’ He looked up to see a wonderful array of stars. ‘Wow,’ he thought, ‘I’ve never seen so many stars before.’ The moon’s reflection shimmered across the surface of the water.

It was clear this was no river; it was more a huge expanse of water.  Twisting around, he tried to make out a shoreline somewhere but could see none; just water in every direction as far as the eye could see.

Stefan started wondering what the hell was going on.  He started to talk quietly to calm himself. Think! Think! There must be a rational explanation and don’t panic. Remember your army training - panicking will get you killed.

Trying to rationalise the situation, he said, Okay, I got sucked down by a whirlpool, which then spat me out in some sort of lake or sea… but how?  The sea is miles away; surely, I would have drowned well before reaching open water? It would have taken hours… No, I would be dead, that’s for sure.

"I have drowned; that’s it, and this must be heaven. It doesn’t feel much like the heaven I was hoping for.

Bloody bottle’s come to heaven with me if that’s the case. Nope, I sure don’t feel dead… whatever that feels like.  I have passed out and somehow kept my head above water, that’s why it’s dark.  I must have been in the water for hours."

He tried to orientate himself; Right, I had best try and swim to safety before freezing to death.  Stefan began to shiver and wondered which way to head for land.

*********************

Eve of the Great Feast

Herthrop was in good spirits. All seemed right with the world, but little did he know how, on this day, his life would change forever.

His father gave him a huge hug and wished him well, as he was due to set off on the nightly

fishing trip. It was rare for his father to hug him at all, especially as he was eighteen now and men should not hug men; it would not do at all. Yet, all the same, it made Herthrop feel good.

Oh sure, his father would hug him when he was drunk and full of bluster and emotion. Drink often took him that way, making him melancholy, but tonight Herthrop felt great and the hug had filled him with pride.

This was to be his first trip as captain of the fishing fleet. It was called a fleet to make it sound grand but this was no fleet; just three small sailing sloops, no more than sixteen feet long, each with a crew of three or four. Nonetheless, he was now officially their captain and it felt good.

Tonight, when they returned it would be the Feast of the Lagoon, an annual feast to celebrate the start of the great spawning of the garniper, a huge fish with lots of meaty flavourful flesh, if a bit bony. An easy catch particularly at this time of year as it was spawning season, you could hook them with your eyes closed; didn’t need any bait really, real dozy fish they were.

Herthrop was determined his first catch as Captain would be the best yet and worthy of the great Feast. All the villagers would be wearing their finery; his father would don his great gold chain and all twelve of his ancestral bangles, each one handed down by the previous Lord, his father being the twelfth Lord of Gagrifontans.

In fact, all the treasures of the village would be on display that evening. The bronze Cauldron of Artenbloom, the ivory-tipped longbows from the ancient wars of Sapernia, and much more. It was the one day that the whole village could see the treasures, which were usually hidden and kept safe from raiders.

So, off went Captain Herthrop to a hail of cheers. His father was sitting in his grand ceremonial chair, at the end of the pier, proudly waving his mace. The throne was made of old driftwood and had a high back and ornately carved eagles perching at each side. Requiring eight men to lift it, the throne had been ceremoniously carried from the village on two long poles.

He wanted Herthrop, this new Captain of the fleet, to have a send-off befitting the son of Lord Ballihop Von Wold.

With shoulders back and full of pride, Herthrop set off leading the boats out into the lagoon. It was tradition that, as the son and heir, he would one day become Captain of the fleet.  Now that he had turned eighteen, his father decided the time was right to retire, and so he handed over the fleet to his son.

Herthrop had earned the right to be Captain regardless of privilege. He was the hardest worker and had learned the trade well.  Having sailed with the fleet since he was twelve, he was treated no differently than the rest of the crew by his father, and by the time he reached sixteen, he had become the best fisherman in the group bar one man - Lord Ballihop Von Wold himself.

His village was built in a small clearing in a place called West Wodenbloom. A small patch of woodland surrounded the village which sat on a small knoll high above the lagoon. The secluded location suited the Gagrifontans as it lay some ten miles south of the ancient great walled city of Sapernium.  The city was a sight to behold. It was built of golden sandstone with six huge towers guarding the thirty-foot-high walls and it lay nestled in a valley in the foothills of the Artenbloom Mountains. At one time, Sapernium had been the home of the Gagrifontans.

Now, they were a very small clan of only six families, with a population of ninety people.  The Sapernians were scathing of Herthrop’s people, seeing them as lazy and dim-witted fools. It was an isolated existence for the Gagrifontans, who slept during the day and worked at night. As a result, while they rested, they were often the victims of small raids.  It was more a nuisance than anything else; other villages would steal their catch which was hung on huge drying frames at the edge of the village, or sometimes some livestock was taken, but never enough to cause them any real hardship.

At night-time, things were very different; the Gagrifontans came alive, busying themselves with hunting and fishing, replenishing their stores. On rare occasions, they would send out small raiding parties to one of the other villages and recover their losses and their pride.

Mostly, they were working hard in the fishing fleet out on the Fulganus Lagoon, which was abundant with seafood and so, each night, you would find the fishermen working and singing, singing and working.

We’re rowing and a-fishing

Casting out and a-reeling 

Big fish are now feeding

And our nets they are filling 

So cast out your lines, boys

And hold fast ya rails

They’re biting tonight, lads

As big as them whales

We’re rowing and a-fishing

Casting out and a-reeling

Big fish are now feeding

And our nets they are filling

So, fill up to the gunnels

For the fires at home are burning

And the cooking pots are waiting

For the big catch of the day

So, keep a-rowing and a-fishing

Keep casting and reeling

Fill the nets to the gunnels

Then we feast till we’re sleeping

*********************

Stefan was still alive; he knew that for sure. Although he could hear strange singing in the distance, he knew it wasn’t the angels at St Peter’s gates.  Now very cold, somewhat confused and quite lost, he wondered where the hell he was.

He needed to get out of the water, and quickly, or he would pass out from hypothermia and drown.

Stefan was in trouble and had to find help. Taking a deep breath and filling his lungs to capacity, he started yelling out as loud as he could, all the time trying to gauge the direction and distance of the singing. Over and over he shouted, Help; over here. Help! Help!

By now, his energy was failing rapidly and his voice was becoming hoarse until he could shout no more.

Resting his voice, he found even treading water was now tiring. Stefan listened intently, hoping desperately for a reply to his screams for help. Nothing. No reply at all.  Yet he could still hear the singing, he could make out the words ‘fishing and a-reeling’. ‘Fishermen!’ he thought. ‘Thank God; they must be too far away to hear me over their singing.’ So, having swum a good one hundred yards, Stefan grew in confidence that the direction he was heading in was right, as the singing was getting louder.

All of a sudden, Stefan was struck by a sudden sharp pain along his left forearm. He felt as if he was being attacked by a shark or some other big predator; like his flesh was being torn away from the bone in a feeding frenzy. The pain was becoming intense; burning into his very soul.

It was a powerful beast which was forcing him to twist and turn his body as it continued to pull at his flesh. He began flailing at his injured arm with his right fist, expecting to hit the snout of a huge shark, but there was nothing.  He was just punching water and nothing more when suddenly his right hand became snagged up in some type of wire. It suddenly dawned on Stefan that it was not a fish at all, but a fishing line - and a thick one at that.  He moved his hand carefully and slowly down the line to his forearm. He could feel the cold steel of a huge fishing hook, embedded in his arm, which had by now started to dig into the bone.  Feeling as though he was bleeding heavily and with his mind racing, he thought, ‘Great, what a f*****g mess! Now I’ve been hooked by those deaf bastard fishermen.’

Worst of all, Stefan’s blood was now forming a cloudy pool around him, making him all too aware that he was live bait for some giant flesh-eating monster.

The bastards clearly thought they had just hooked the catch of the day, reeling and tugging at the line in short sharp lunges which only added to his agony.

He was in a desperate situation. At best, he would lose his arm, either to the fishermen or to a prowling shark that had sensed his panic and was probably already zooming in on his scent from the blood drifting out behind him. Stefan could not help but be drawn to the depths in panic at any shadows that might be lurking, waiting to strike.

He knew he had to act. He summoned all his strength and screamed as loud as he could, Let go, you bastards! Let go!

You’ve got my bloody arm, you f*****g morons! I’m not a f*****g fish!  Yet, the more he struggled, the more the line was being snatched.  Now, acting like a fish fighting capture, it was only making things worse.

Herthrop was full of energy and excitement. This is the big one this time. Perfect! What a stroke of luck; this bugger will make my day even more special; what a feast we will have tonight. Still, he was experienced enough to know that when a fish was this big, possibly even a record catch, it would be almost impossible to land it on his own; yet he wanted this catch badly; What a way to begin as Captain with a record catch!

Herthrop could sense the line was being stretched to its limits, and so was he, despite his huge strength. Herthrop was blessed with a strong build; although he was only 5`6" tall, he weighed 16 stone and it was all muscle. Even with a huge chest and powerful forearms, this fish was more than a match for him.

No matter how strong this fish was, he wasn’t going to lose it, that was for sure, Come on, give me a hand over here and quick about it.  Jump to it lads, NOW.  This is a feisty bugger; it’s huge, I swear, and it ain’t best pleased at being on my hook either.  This will be on the centre of the table at the feast tonight, you mark my words.

The others dropped their lines and the singing died away as everyone was now focused on Captain Herthrop in his epic battle with the giant fish.

Berrick grabbed his gaff and leant over the side, ready to grab the catch, while Fintain took a hold of Herthrop around the waist. Now, hold me tight, Fintain, while I reel this bugger in. As soon as it’s close enough, Berrick, gaff the bugger.

Herthrop gave a huge heave backwards as he reeled in the line; all his muscles and sinews were straining. His veins bulged in his neck; adrenaline was pumping vigorously, as he now leant back with one huge last effort, trying desperately to break the deadlock.

Fintain’s arms were locked tightly around his waist and he had his feet firmly wedged against the boat’s planking for support.

Berrick, by now, was chuckling to himself at the sight of Herthrop and Fintain. It must be a bloody whale the way these two are carrying on, or else they’re in love!  That’s it, they just wanted a cuddle, lads!

Without warning, the fish hit back hard and took them both by surprise. Suddenly, Fintain slipped, his feet spread apart and he fell tumbling backwards, losing his grip. As he did so, Herthrop was catapulted over the side of the boat, there was a huge splash and in he went, shocked, angry and humiliated.

You stupid bastard, Fintain! I’ll have you for this! Herthrop was scrambling for the boat as Berrick leaned over, saying, Hold on Captain! Grab onto my gaff, tight mind, and I’ll pull you up.

Herthrop held on tight and passed up his rod to Fintain, who grabbed it and held it in place.

Fintain was now back on his feet and red-faced. He had cocked up by slipping and losing his grip, and he knew he would pay for it later, for sure.  Now, he began to reel in the catch again, but this time it was much easier. He realised that it looked as though the fish had got away.  If that was the case, Fintain’s troubles were only going to get worse.

Berrick shouted to the crew, Right lads, haul in the Captain and his whale.  Everyone laughed, barring Herthrop and Fintain. Herthrop was wet, cold and humiliated, with anger welling up inside him.  His first trip as Captain - Herthrop thought, ‘What will father think? Fintain will pay for this and whatever that creature is on the end of the line, too.’

Captain, I am sorry, I think we’ve lost him. There’s no pull on the line anymore.

Herthrop was furious. You had best pray it’s still hooked, Fintain, or your life won’t be worth living, believe me.

Fintain was about to say sorry again when he felt a tug on the line. Hold on, there’s something still on it; I can feel it tugging, maybe you have exhausted it now, Captain.

Herthrop grabbed the rod. Well, you had best hope so, for your sake.

Stefan was exhausted as pain burned and pulsed along his arm; his head was pounding and he was gulping in water each time he scrambled for breath.  The game was up; he was a goner.

Yet, from somewhere deep inside, his instinct to survive overcame his weakness, and grabbing the line as tightly as he could in his right hand, even though it cut into his palm, he took one huge gulp of air and with the image of a scene from Jaws, made one great surge, plunging down to the depths as fast as he could when suddenly the line went slack. He began kicking his legs hard as he came back to the surface.  The line twisted and wrapped itself tightly around his chest, pinning his right arm to his side. He realised his predicament was now even worse. He had one option left, and so he took a lung full of air, turned onto his back and began kicking his legs as he headed towards the fishermen. The line suddenly tensed up again, digging into his flesh, but at least it was no longer working the hook deeper into his arm. With his energy now spent, Stefan could do no more. Gritting his teeth in pain, he made it easier for them to reel him in.

Drifting in and out of consciousness, Stefan somehow managed to keep up with the pace of the fishermen reeling him in. Seeing the side of a boat, then a huge hand coming out of the black towards him, he closed his eyes and his head went under. His last thought as he passed out was, ‘Why the hell did I go after that damned message in a bottle?’

So, Stefan was captured by a fishing hook and hauled in to the sounds of the fishermen’s song. He was in a world he did not know or recognise and Herthrop had landed the record catch that never was.

Berrick hooked Stefan’s shirt with the gaff and heaved his body over the side. He flopped into the keel, limp and listless, his clothes soaked in blood, with fish squirming and flapping all around him.

Stefan lay unconscious and shivering; clearly, he had been in the cold water for far too long now.

He’s half-dead, Captain; what shall we do with him? Fintain was keen to appease Herthrop.

He’s caused some trouble, this bugger has, and no doubt.

Herthrop’s mood was foul; he felt humiliated and had no prize fish to show for his embarrassment.  This was not how he wanted his first trip as Captain to turn out.

Chuck the bastard back before I throw you in with him! You’ve both caused me enough trouble already, so let the crabs have him for their supper.

He didn’t much care for saving the life of a stranger who had ruined his big day. Worst of all, he’d be the laughing stock, the butt of all the jokes at the feast tonight.

Stefan started to mumble, ‘Dad, Dad, is that you? It’s me, Stefan, your son."

What did he say?

Sounds like Dad, Dad is that you?  He’s delirious he is; the cold’s got to him, I reckon, Captain, not much hope for the poor bastard anyway.

Berrick stooped down to check him for anything worth taking before throwing him overboard.

"Hey, look; he has a message in a bottle.  Oh, and have you seen what he’s wearing?  Strange looking trews, they are and them