The Next Morning
A hushed silence fell across the deck as the sun rose over the sea. Moments later, it was broken by shouted commands and nervous, whispered chatter.
"Into the boats!" The young captain directed, stabbing his finger at the series of longboats being lowered into the water, and men began to mill in that direction, holding tightly to their longbows and making last minute checks of their boiled leather armor.
Near the prow of the ship, bobbing in the water and pulling at its rope tethers, was a longboat already full of bowmen. Among them, Waldor was dismayed to see the nobleman Tarkus - hunched over and sweaty already under the dawning sun, his chain armor glinting dully in the light. A sword was strapped to his hip, and he clutched at it desperately with the hand he had left to him.
A wasted life, the boy thought somberly, and passed on last minute directions to his sergeants - every one of them older than him by at least ten years. Then he made for the prow of the ship and, reaching it, shimmied the length of a long rope into the boat Tarkus had claimed as his own. He checked over his own leather armor and brigandine jack after thumping down, checked his unstrung bow, then shouldered it in favour of his small stabbing sword.
"A good time to fight, milord. The weather is with us," the young man lied, watching that mutilated face turn toward him, searching him out blindly and by voice alone. Then the nobleman nodded once, blinking his empty eyes. "The men saw an albatross earlier. Those sailors claim it's good luck. Something about the souls of the drowned." Another lie, but a harmless one if it raised the morale of his men.
Tarkus made an unintelligible, guttural sound and spat.
Waldor sighed quietly and turned his attention to the coast.
Now it was just a matter of time.
"Row!"
