Raethe sits on a small crate near the bow of Shallya’s Mercy, staring intently north by northeast. After months of travelling through southern Europa and even into Araby, he has the sense that his destination is finally within reach. Not that the extended journey hasn’t been somewhat agreeable. In truth, Raethe reflects, he has enjoyed the distractions of strange landscapes and cultures. Following Kal on foolhardy treks through all manner of strange places in search of fortune and fame was a somewhat welcome change from the constant feeling of fighting for one’s life against insurmountable odds every day. Unfortunately, all of these travels, all of these busy ports of trade, bustling cities, and even the caravans and adventuring parties only served to underscore just how much he doesn’t belong anywhere. Raethe took a deep breath and quietly acknowledged that this disassociation was mostly a product of his own lack of direction. For nearly twenty summers he had absolute clarity of purpose, and a preternatural sense guiding him from place to place as if beacons were being lit to mark his path the whole way. It was time to get back to business, but regrettably, he was now at the mercy of the wind, and worse, the whimsy of his friend and captain.

He smiles and takes some perverse pleasure in that the longer Kal delays the more Marlena will torment him until he is able to deposit her someplace safe. Especially now with the conjurer onboard holding her imagination captive. Raethe is sure he will ask her to stay in his “home port” while they make the journey further north, but who knows if she will have any of that. Raethe chuckles just the slightest bit.

Not a moment too soon, he hears Kal give the order to get underway. With that, the journey up river has finally begun. Raethe spends the next several days mapping out the trip in excruciating detail to himself, as if obsessing about every inch of the voyage will somehow propel them faster… “the Volga River will take us north from Odessa… the first bend comes about fourteen miles… and we will have to drop anchor six or eight hours outside of Arkangyl… should only take two or three weeks…”

Raethe salivates at the prospect of finally getting some solid answers to the burning questions that never seem to end, though the thought of traveling so close to home brings a sense of trepidation.

A few days out from port the Mercy was approached by a small river faring skiff. It flew unfamiliar colors, and was crewed by half a dozen manling rabble. They hail the ship, and Kal is nice enough to oblige a quick negotiation for a toll to proceed up river. They say they come with Vasilli’s authority, and that he controls the northern leg of the river, as well as all trade passing through “his” territory. Raethe resists the urge to scuttle their small ship and drown everyone on it just for slowing them down when they are so close, but Kal loves to feel like he is brokering every transaction in Europa, so they talk. Eventually, Kal decides that their toll is too high, and that we will take our chances with Vasilli’s “armada.”

Shortly after the lookout spots smoke rising up over the horizon… a signal. Since surprise and diplomacy are now out of the question, the ship erupts in flurries of activity to prepare for whatever this Vasilli has in store.

The river bends, first east, then back west. It forces us to slow our pace… the perfect spot for an ambush. Vasilli has a small fortification on the west bank of the river, and we would soon learn that there were several bowmen in the brush on the east bank. The attack was fairly well coordinated, but executed by amateurs… Amateurs who had no idea what they were in for.

By the time the main sails of the three pirate skiffs were in plain view it was too late. They had an advantage tactically: numbers, flanks, and catapults that would make themselves known from behind the small earthen barricade… They were in big trouble.

Since it was dark, and the Mercy’s crew skilled, the catapults had a hard time finding their range, and even with the bowmen using flaming pitch to pepper the hull with fiery arrows, the elements and the gods favored the Mercy. In a matter of moments, one of the skiffs was set ablaze by the wizard from Araby. Whoever survived the fire threw themselves overboard and either swam for shore (a tough swim for most) or toward one of the two remaining skiffs… bad idea.

Soon fires erupted on the second skiff, and then the third. One of the skiffs was helped to the bottom of the river by the bow of the much larger Estallian caravel. Dorak called on the many blessings of Thorain to douse the fires pelting the starboard side of the Mercy, and Khalid again called on the elements to obliterate the catapults before they inflicted any meaningful damage to the ship. In the wake of all of this carnage, several skiffs carried reinforcements down river toward the battle, but they quickly thought better of the plan, and pulled ashore. This wasn’t a fight, it was a slaughter. Vasilli would have to do much better than that if he wanted his cut of Kal’s stores.

All through the battle, Raethe watched as his companions and the crew of Shallya’s Mercy routed the brigands under Vasilli’s flag. Anxious to get into the fray, but not so overcome by bloodlust as these were certainly not worthy foes. They deserved to burn, and drown, and live with their cowardice as they fled. They were not worthy of feeling the thunder of the Stormhammer.

So he stood, seething, but not at his current enemies. Raethe could “see,” standing on a crate near the forward mast, the long road, the wastes, the forge fires, and the ghosts of the past, and those of the future. They would be very near his home soon. Every step, every gust of wind took them that much closer to the atrocities of his youth, and the forgotten wonders of his once celebrated clan. These thoughts, these visions weighed heavy on his heart and mind. Still, with each passing day, the air was fresher, colors were more vibrant, and he could smell the fragrant evergreens as though he were walking through the pristine woodlands outside his homeland. Even the food he ate tasted better. If he didn’t know better, he would swear that he was feeling joyful… but he did know better.

Still, despite his inner protests, something swelled inside of his heart and it was not the all too familiar fury that would so often consume him. So as the battle wore down, and the crew set to repairing any damage and setting the riggings, Raethe made his way back below decks to his small corner of the ship. Clearing aside the mound of cargo nets that he used as a bed, Raethe retrieved his pack and began setting a few items to the side. Careful that no one had followed him downstairs, he removed a large bundle and placed it gently on top of the nets. Meticulously he removed the thick leather straps which buckled in back, and then unfolded the thick white fur that held the precious contents within. The fur was as white as newly fallen snow, and still cold to the touch, and as he moved the flaps to the side his eyes were fixed and he was taken back in time for moment. He could not will himself to ignore the waves of nostalgia he felt. Could his road ever lead back there? Could he ever look upon the halls… no, never. Raethe shook his head violently as if trying to recover from a brutal strike. Still, even he had to admit that there was something in the air that made him long for those days again.

The feeling was quickly washed away as he heard the door of the hold swing open. Raethe carefully repacked the bundle, and replaced the contents of his pack. A nervous looking deckhand (who had so obviously drawn the short straw) came cautiously down the stairs and began looking frantically around the small reserve cargo hold. “Sorr… sorr… sorry, but I… I… need a…” Raethe just snorted and ignored him, and soon the runt found a small barrel of tar. He snatched it up as fast as he could, and made haste up the stairs to begin his repair work.

Raethe placed his furs on top of the netting as a makeshift pillow, pulled off his steel shod boots, and settled in to get some rest. They would pull in to port in a few hours, and he intended to waste no time getting to Arkangyl.