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Captain Frick Austen sank, completely enveloped, drowning. The soft, lavender-scented sheets billowed around him as he fell into the massive, luxurious bed, the flickering light of the bedside candle throwing deep shadows across the dark purple velvet canopy above him. Frick gazed across the bed at his love, barely suppressing a mirthful smirk, holding an expression that he hoped could be described as smoldering.
Her Royal Highness Tillia Alagondar, Princess of Neverwinter, Daughter of the Realm, and Heir to the Throne, met his gaze, held it for three seconds, and cracked. She snickered and grinned, shaking her head lightly.
“Come now, my lady,” Frick objected, pouting, “be kind. It has been many months at sea; I am out of practice!”
Tillia shook her head. “Oh, Frick,” she said, “you know it is your soul and wit that delights me so. There’s no need for dramatic entreaties in this room! You already have my attention.” She winked, and began unbuttoning the oversized naval jacket she was wearing over her gown.
Frick’s heart quickened as the jacket slid slowly from her shoulders. Tillia carefully folded the jacket so as not to crease it, and draped it gently on the chair beside her desk. Frick smiled. It was a small gesture, and not strictly necessary, as Frick himself had let his jacket slump into a heap on a chair on many a tired night. He had a clothes iron; he could remove wrinkles. But she showed his jacket the same tenderness and care that she showed him. It was his, and therefore she loved and cared for it.
Tillia reached behind her back, and deftly pulled at the ribbons holding her gown shut tightly. The garment slid smoothly to the floor, and Frick’s breath left his body. Tillia climbed into bed, and Frick surrendered himself to the warmth of her embrace, as the flickering light faded behind the curtain of her dark hair. Frick smiled in his rapture, comfortable and safe in this bed that felt like it could be home.
~~
The sails fluttered and roared in the howling, salty wind as the ship pitched and raced down the swell. Captain Frick gripped the wheel, straining to keep the ship on a steady course as she fought to follow the wind. These waters were reportedly a hotbed of pirate activity; he’d be damned if he let a storm get in the way of his promise to King Bronn that he would put a stop to the piracy threatening Neverwinter and the Sword Coast. He had sailed through worse. The ship could handle wind and swells. Still….
“Mr. Argo!” Frick called to his first mate. “Are the cannons properly secured, and the powder covered?”
“Aye, Captain!” Mr. Argo shouted over the sound of the wind and the sails. He looked anxiously out at the darkening storm clouds, then back at Frick. “Captain, you’re not thinking of sailing into the storm, are you?”
“Yes I am, Mr. Argo!” Frick confirmed. “We have a duty to our King! A pirate may think these waters the perfect cover! Well, we shall show them that the King’s Navy commands the waters wherever we sail, and they are no braver than we!”
Frick’s first mate looked out once more at the storm. “Begging pardon, sir; you’re mad! Not even pirates would be crazy enough to chart a course through the maelstrom!”
Frick grinned. Mr. William Argo was young; he had risen quickly through the ranks. He was a brilliant master of ship operations, well-liked by the crew, and intensely loyal. But he was still only twenty-four, and his relative inexperience showed whenever the ship encountered rough seas–he had not yet learned when to trust the ship, and when to steer clear.
“That’s where you’re wrong, young Mr. Argo!” Captain Frick replied. He pulled the ship’s wheel ever so slightly to starboard, aiming the ship’s prow at the trough between two oncoming swells. “A pirate’s ship is his life,” Frick explained. “He knows her as well as he knows himself! When a sailor knows his ship, a squall such as this is no challenge. Our own ship has sailed through worse–remind me later to tell you of the hurricane we sailed through when I was still only a boatswain!”
Mr. Argo nodded, and pushed his hat down tight, pushing the tips of his half-elven ears outward. “It’s an honor as always to serve with and learn from you, sir, “ he shouted, “I’ll go make sure the crew are at the ready–if we come across pirates in this storm, they won’t know what hit them!”
“That’s my boy!” Frick said. “You’re a fast learner; you’ll make a fine captain yet!”
Mr. Argo gave a sharp salute, and disappeared below-decks.
Frick had of course told the story of the hurricane many times. Now there was a mad captain. Captain Sharp-As-Filed-Claws, a tabaxi with far too much taste for adventure, and not enough patience for a detour around even the most dangerous of storms. They had weathered that storm, but at the cost of every crew member’s stomach, a mast, and one of the lifeboats.
The lookout’s call drew Frick back from his memory of that tempest to the present one. “Ship sighted, starboard side!” she cried from the crow’s nest.
Frick squinted, straining to see what the lookout had seen. There, on the horizon– bobbing in and out of view over the crests of the swells, was a blip of white sails.
~~
Tillia grinned at Frick over the top of her wineglass as she took a sip. Happy? she mouthed.
Frick allowed a small smile to play at the corner of his mouth, and gave a small wink. The Minister of Finance continued to expound on the follies of Waterdeep’s fiscal policy, completely oblivious to the silent exchange occurring near the end of the banquet table.
Dagult Neverember, the young but ascendant secretary from Waterdeep, cleared his throat. “Yes, indeed, that is all fine and well,” he said, cutting off the Minister of Finance. “Perhaps Neverwinter has ample stores of gold and precious jewels which permit a more…conservative approach. And perhaps my colleague in Waterdeep’s Ministry of Finance is indeed getting ahead of herself.” He speared a small potato with his fork and waved it dismissively at Neverwinter’s own finance minister. “But I must say, replacing our currency with one backed fundamentally not by shiny rocks, but by the strength of Waterdeep’s relationship with our neighbours, has done wonders for our economic standing. Indeed, just this last month, Waterdeep’s trade revenues exceeded your own for the first time in generations.”
Tillia raised an eyebrow meaningfully at Frick, as the finance minister’s face flushed. Frick bowed his head ever so slightly, and took a sip from his own glass of wine.
“If I am not mistaken, however,” Dagult continued through a mouthful of potato, “His Majesty did not invite me here to tell you all how we are remaking Waterdeep into the jewel of the Sword Coast, nor to convince you to abandon your antiquated ways.”
Frick rolled his eyes mid-sip, and tipped his glass up the rest of the way and finished his drink. Tillia burst into a fit of giggles.
“Is everything alright, my dear?” Queen Justinia asked, giving Tillia a pointed look.
“Yes, mother,” Tillia said sheepishly, her cheeks bright red. “I apologize; I was not paying attention, and was merely recalling an amusing anecdote Captain Austen told me earlier this evening,” she said, locking eyes with Frick, as if daring him to call out her lie. “I meant no offense to either Secretary Neverember, nor Minister Ulven,” she continued. The elven Minister of Finance bowed his head in acknowledgement, but Frick thought he saw a scowl flit across Dagult’s face as he glanced his way.
The Queen looked down her glasses at Frick with suspicion. “Indeed,” she said. “My dear Captain Austen, you shall have to share your anecdote with the rest of us. You have clearly delighted my daughter; I wish to share in her delight.”
Frick bowed his head in deference. “Of course, Your Majesty,” he replied, “only perhaps–”
“Perhaps we should get to the heart of the matter, indeed. Mr. Neverember, you are correct that this banquet is not for gloating,” King Bronn interjected. Frick smiled inwardly, grateful that he would not need to either invent something sufficiently amusing on the spot, or tell a tale from his days with Captain Claws, which would almost certainly be unsuitable for polite company.
“Quite right,” Minister Ulven harrumphed. “You see, my good sir, if Neverwinter is to strike a trade agreement with Waterdeep, then the matter of your currency is–”
“Minister Ulven,” the King interrupted, as Tillia rolled her eyes and took another drink from her wine glass, “I didn’t mean your trade agreement. We are here to discuss the recent maritime violence along the Coast. I was hoping to discuss the possibility of a naval coalition. Secretary Neverember is here,” the King gestured down the table at Dagult, who nodded knowingly, “because he is Waterdeep’s Secretary of Trade and Defense .”
Frick sat straighter in his seat. That was his cue to join the conversation. His flirtatious drinking game with Tillia would have to wait. “Yes, Secretary Neverember,” he began, “your letters indicated that Waterdeep would be willing to pledge ships, sailors, and cannons to our anti-piracy efforts. That leaves open the question of how to allocate ships, who will command them, and how we should share the burden of financing the operation…”
~~
The other ship closed the distance quickly with the wind fully in her sails, and with her came the squall line and the rain–as if her crew were trying to outrun the storm. Captain Frick’s crew bustled on the deck as they prepared to meet the ship. The ship had no colours visible, so they needed to be prepared to either render aid or defend themselves. Lifeboats were being readied and rescue lines prepared, and at the same time, guns were being mounted into position, pistols loaded, and powder barrels snug in oilskins maneuvered into position.
When the ship was only a few hundred metres away, she began to turn, presenting her broadside and facing into the storm.
“They’re preparing to hoist colours, Captain” the lookout called. After a moment’s pause, she continued, “They look like Neverember colours!”
Frick frowned–that was a relief, to see friendly colours, but the ships Waterdeep had pledged sailed under the city’s colours, not Dagult’s. “Are you sure, Ms. Amaroso?” he shouted up to the crow’s nest, squinting against the heavy raindrops that had begun to pelt the ship.
“Aye, Captain!” She responded. “I can see the family crest!”
Huh, that was odd, Frick thought. What was one of Dagult’s personal ships doing out here? A trade vessel blown off-course into the storm, perhaps? “Prepare to offer aid!” he called down to the deck. Mr. Argo signaled his acknowledgment, and began directing the deck hands to lower the lifeboats.
“Captain!” Ms. Amaroso called down again. “Captain, they’re opening their gunports!”
What? Captain Frick barely had a moment to register his confusion when the first cannon boomed, and the water exploded just off the ship’s bow. What are they playing at? He glanced up to their own colours–they were still there, as of course they would be–there was no way this ship could mistake them for pirates.
“Captain Austen!” Mr. Argo yelled from the deck. “What do we do?”
Frick hesitated. Opening fire on one of Dagult Neverember’s ships would surely end their coalition, and the anti-piracy initiative would be sunk. And yet–here was a Neverember ship firing upon them . If they didn’t defend themselves, they themselves would be sunk–and with the fleet’s flagship sunk, so too would be the anti-piracy initiative.
“Fire a warning shot!” he replied. “Perhaps that was their intent, too!” Maybe they had some emergency on board–a dangerous magical artifact, perhaps, and they were warning Frick and his crew to steer clear.
“Aye, sir!” Mr. Argo acknowledged. Moments later, one of the forward guns recoiled along its track with a gout of smoke and fire, and a distant white spray erupted some twenty metres wide of the other ship.
Frick teased the wheel slightly to port, to gain some distance between the ships while they waited to see how the other ship would respond. If she was carrying dangerous cargo and simply needed a wide berth to escape the storm, they would give it to her.
“ Fuses lit! ” Ms. Amaroso screamed from the crow’s nest, and four dozen flashes of light rippled down the gunports of the Neverember ship.
~~
Frick studied the chess board before him. He was not entirely sure how he had ended up in this mess. His king had been well-protected, with a sturdy armament of knights, bishops and pawns limiting avenues of attack. Which was itself now the problem, with Tillia’s queen and knight threatening his king from an unexpected flank, and limited avenues of escape.
“Excellent move, your highness,” he murmured. “Are you sure you haven’t played before?”
Tillia giggled. “I’m sure it’s just beginner’s luck,” she suggested with a shrug. Frick looked up from the pieces and met her eyes–her eyes were laughing at him. Eyes the colour of mahogany and wheat fields, which earnestly drank in their opponent, even as they laughed with delight. Tillia suppressed another laugh, and grinned. “Really, my darling Frick,” she continued, “I assure you. You are a most excellent teacher. Now, remind me, what was the word I say when I’ve put you, ah, what was it, up shit creek without a paddle?”
Frick laughed, and grinned at Tillia. “Check,” he said. “You have put me in check. Quite cleverly.” He picked up his bishop, and moved it into the line of fire. Tillia would certainly take such easy prey, but that would put the attacking piece within striking distance, and he could perhaps untangle this mess. It would cost him, but it might save the game. He looked up to see Tillia’s reaction.
Her smile had waned slightly. “You don’t like sacrificing your pieces, do you?” she asked softly.
Frick’s mind reeled for a moment, and the knot he always felt in his stomach around Tillia tightened slightly. How had she known? Was he that easy to read? “Y–yes….” he replied. “Every piece, even a pawn, is important. To sacrifice them to head off an attack…it means foregoing all their future contributions. I don’t take that lightly.”
Tillia nodded. “A noble attitude. I see why Father trusts you so much. I would hate to serve under a ship’s captain who didn’t care for all his crew,” she said. She reached out and placed her fingers lightly on her queen, and paused, contemplating her move. She withdrew the queen back along the diagonal, to her home territory. “Was that an acceptable move?” she asked, her face scrunched with concern.
Frick nodded. “Calling off an attack when both sides stand to lose pieces can be wise indeed,” he said. “Withdraw, assess the battlefield, and find a new, more advantageous angle from which to attack. You yourself, my lady, would make a fine Queen, with such wisdom.”
Tillia blushed. “Well,” she said, placing her hands tightly in her lap as she examined the board. “I am not Queen yet. Father and Mother intend to rule until I have found a King with whom to rule.” She looked up at Frick under her eyelashes, and the knot in his stomach tied itself into three more knots.
Frick mustered every ounce of coolness he had. “Any man would be honored to serve at your side, my lady,” he said, “I hope of course you will choose one who honors you in return.” He hoped he had come across smoothly, and not as the bundle of nerves he turned into around Tillia.
Tillia smiled warmly. “I hope so too,” she said. “At minimum, I should hope he would honor me by taking his turn, too,” she added with a wink.
“Oh! Um. Er, yes.” Frick studied the board briefly, and advanced his rook, encroaching upon Tillia’s side of the board, and putting several of her pawns, a knight, and, if he was lucky and sustained this attack, eventually her queen in danger.
Tillia swiftly moved her other knight out from behind a bishop and took his rook.
Drat.
~~
Captain Frick wiped the rain out of his eyes, and loaded another shot into his rifle, carefully measuring out the powder under the fold of his coat so it would not get wet. The gun primed, he peered over the railing, raised the gun to his shoulder, carefully aimed, and fired. The pellet shot across the water, and the dwarven woman at the enemy’s forecastle swivel gun lurched backwards, clutching at her shoulder. The enemy’s first broadside had largely gone high, tearing holes in the sails and severing one of the mizzenmast’s cross beams–but that swivel gunner had injured two of Frick’s crew.
“Reloading!” he called, as he ducked back below the railing, and reached for his gun swab to prime the barrel.
“Sir, she’s coming about for another broadside,” Ms. Carracker, his boatswain, warned. She had taken over the helm so Frick could take up position on the firing line. Normally Frick would have kept his own station at the helm, but the leather eyepatch Ms. Carracker wore meant they would be one down on the firing line otherwise. Besides, she had an excellent instinct for positioning in ship-to-ship combat, and with arms nearly the size of powder barrels, she had an even easier time than Frick guiding the ship through the swells and smoke of combat on the high seas.
Frick nodded to her. “Prepare for broadside!” he called down to the deck. “Cannons at the ready!”
Ms. Carracker hauled on the wheel, bringing the ship about to face the enemy ship.
“Ready to fire, sir!” Mr. Argo shouted up from the deck.
Ms. Carracker hauled the wheel back in the other direction, and the ship veered back away from its course towards the enemy, pulling alongside and bringing their own gunports parallel to the enemy’s.
The cannons roared all through the ship as the ship came into view, the broadside volley raking the side of the enemy ship, as she replied with her own broadside. Wood splintered and groaned as iron balls crashed through the ships’ timbers. Frick grabbed the deck railing to steady himself as the ship rocked beneath him, reeling from the recoil of her own guns and the impact of the enemy fire.
“Mr. Argo, what’s our state?” Frick called down to the deck, once the ship had stopped rocking.
The first mate looked up at Frick, and even across half the deck, Frick could see the worry on his face. He was doing his level-best to remain the image of calm command, but the young man had not seen combat like this–and Frick saw its effect in his pale complexion and the drawn corners of his mouth.
“We’re–the ship’s holding steady, sir!” Mr. Argo called back. “We took a heavy hit, but we have all our guns, and they hit above the water line!”
Frick nodded. “Losses?” he asked, his voice rising to a shout to be heard over the roar of the wind and the waves.
“Deming and Priya injured by the swivel gunner, as you know, sir! And Anders took a bullet in the first broadside. And, um…. Williams took a splinter to the leg just now.”
Damn. Ms. Williams was a promising petty officer, a good dining companion, and Mr. Argo’s longtime playing cards partner. The two of them were close. No wonder Argo looked worried. Shrapnel to the thigh was bad.
“Are they all down in medical?” Frick asked.
Mr. Argo nodded vigorously.
“They’re in good hands, then!” Frick shouted down. “Let’s get those guns loaded and make sure the Doc doesn’t have anyone else to fix up!”
“Aye, sir!”
~~
Captain Frick Austen strode confidently into the great hall, his friend, Lieutenant Nordil Barsque at his side.
“Ah, Frick, Nordil!” King Bronn boomed from across the room. The King was surrounded by a small cluster of people–the Queen Justinia beside him, a few palace aides, and two people whom Frick did not recognize–one stern-looking, older, and with years of stress written across his face, and one younger, an eager-looking fellow.
“Your Majesty,” Frick greeted the King, smiling as he crossed the hall. “And Your Majesty,” he said to Queen Justinia in turn as he arrived at the group, bowing before her. “It is a pleasure to meet you once more.”
“The pleasure is surely ours, Captain Austen,” Queen Justinia replied, gesturing for him to straighten up. “I do hope you will grace us with your presence more often, now that the war to the north has finally concluded. My husband has spoken frequently and fondly of your meetings. I should like to get to know the famous Frick!”
Frick bowed his head deeply. “Of course, Your Majesty. It would be my greatest honor. It is good to be back, and to be among friends!”
The eager-looking young man cleared his throat.
“Ah, I have completely forgotten my manners!” Bronn exclaimed. “You must excuse me,” he said, turning to the two strangers, “Captain Austen has been one of my closest military advisors these last few years, and we have developed a rapport. Frick, Nordil, I would like you to meet the Black Staff of Waterdeep, Ashemmon, and Mr. Dagult Neverember, the newly-appointed Secretary of Trade and Defense for Waterdeep. They are here to discuss normalizing our economic relationship as neighbors, and, perhaps, to discuss certain… lucrative …trade agreements?” The King looked to the newcomers with a raised eyebrow.
The young man (Dagult, Frick assumed; he recognized now the sternness of the other as the clear mark of a seasoned intelligence officer such as the Black Staff) nodded. “We did have a few ideas to propose, yes,” he confirmed. “Although we would not presume any entitlement to the resources of such an ancient, well-established city as Neverwinter; we are aware that Waterdeep would be a new partner. We wish most of all to begin the relationship.” He spread his hands broadly. “If we get along well enough to ink trade agreements this meeting as well, well, all the better.”
King Bronn smiled warmly. “I’m sure we will, young Dagult, I’m sure we will. For too long the Sword Coast has been fractured; it is past time we build more resilient alliances, and what better alliances than ones built on trade! Anyway–Dagult, Ashemmon, I would like you to meet Frick Austen, Captain of my royal navy, and of course, you met Lieutenant Nordil Barsque when you first arrived.”
Dagult reached across and shook Frick’s proffered hand–a firm, strong handshake, despite Dagult’s youth. “A pleasure,” Dagult said. “While we are here on a diplomatic mission, and my personal interests tend to the financial, I am also responsible for coordinating Waterdeep’s defense forces. I am sure we will have at least a few interests in common to discuss.”
Frick smiled. “I’m sure we will,” he replied. “Are you a military man, then?”
“Nothing more than a few youthful adventures, and the schooling any young person of means might enjoy. Not like you, I’m afraid–I leave the actual commanding to Waterdeep’s commanders. Rather, I oversee their finances, logistics, and supplies.”
“I see–on first instinct I might balk at someone else deciding how my resources should be allocated,” Frick mused. He looked pointedly to Bronn. “Then again, I don’t think I could complain if I never again had to look at the navy’s books!”
Bronn laughed, and clapped Frick on the shoulder. “Yes, yes, we shall all have much to learn–many ideas to share! But now, let us perhaps retire to the study, pour a few drinks, and begin?”
The group had begun to turn toward one of the hall’s side doors, when the opposite door slammed open.
“Father, that is the second tutor you’ve hired who–oh!” A young woman had strode in, eyes downcast as she swept her long, dark hair out of her face, and then stopped when she looked up and saw the group. Frick surmised that this must be Princess Tillia Alagondar–the King’s daughter. She clapped her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry, I didn’t–”
“No, no, come, come, Tillia–” the King interjected, gesturing for her to join them. “Come meet our friends!”
Tillia’s eyes darted across the group, and met Frick’s. As her golden-brown eyes met his, Frick felt his heart jump, and found he was unable to break her gaze. He had known the Princess was pretty, but there was something about those eyes that held him like a spell….
The Princess broke eye contact, looking aside and anxiously pushing her hair behind her ear, and Frick forced himself to come to attention. He bowed, and beside him, Nordil and the visitors from Waterdeep did the same.
“No, no, I– I really should– I didn’t know there would be–” she turned, and hurried out of the room, her hair and deep green dress flowing behind her as she slipped back through the door.
“I’ll go see what’s upset her,” Queen Justinia said, placing a gentle hand on her husband’s arm before striding off to follow her daughter.
“I’m sorry, I had better go with as well,” King Bronn said to the group, with an apologetic smile. “We’ve, er, had some staffing difficulties….Frick, Barsque, you know the way to the study; could you lead our guests there? Help yourselves to the brandy while you wait; I’ll only be a few minutes.”
Frick and Nordil nodded in acknowledgement, and led Dagult and Ashemmon to the opposite door, and the stone corridor beyond.
“So that was the Princess,” Dagult remarked to Frick, as they walked down the hall. “Had you met her before?”
“I confess I had not,” Frick replied. “Everyone in Neverwinter knows of her, of course, and there are paintings and engravings. But my meetings with the King had hitherto been of a nature that precluded meeting the Princess. Even the Queen herself I admit I barely know.”
“A pity–a pretty thing, is she not?” Dagult asked.
“Quite,” Frick agreed. He could still see those blazing golden eyes in his head–a deep amber into which he might have gazed for hours, had he not been sure such imprudence would have cost him his head.
“And of marriageable age, too,” Dagult mused.
Frick glanced across at Dagult. “Do you fancy her already, then, on such a short meeting?”
Dagult shrugged. “Fancy? Who can say. A man can have many passing fancies; I have never found myself making decisions on such a basis. But for men like you and me, marriage is as much politics as anything else, is it not? We are here to strengthen the ties between Waterdeep and Neverwinter, what better way to ensure a lasting relationship? If she is agreeable, and pretty to look at—well, all the better.”
Frick glanced over at Dagult, and took him in once more-–now he thought he had the measure of the man. He had met people like him, often sailors who came aboard with too little humility. The eagerness made sense now—a hunger borne not of ambition for Waterdeep and his service to it, but of ambition to shape his world according to his own whims. On board a ship, such ambition typically didn’t last long. The sea had more than enough hunger to quickly banish such misplaced ambition and consequent disregard for one’s companions.
“Perhaps,” Frick replied, as they reached the study’s door, and he pushed it open, ushering the others inside. “I have not made lasting attachments myself, so perhaps you are right,” he continued. “But my duty is to my ship and to the sea; politics has little place on deck. Love, though-–there are few sailors who have not after a few years known what it is to love. One must love at the very least the ship and the sea, the brine in the air and the wind in her sails. I think most sailors would find it hard to settle for a union characterized by less.”
~~
Shots peppered the air over the howling gale, punctuated by intermittent cannonfire as the two ships pitched to and fro on the swells. They had lost three more–one sailor killed by an unlucky bullet to the neck, one grazed in the shoulder, and another killed instantly and her cannon destroyed when a cannonball slammed into her gunport. The sails roared in the wind, great gashes and holes torn in them by errant cannonfire. Frick’s crew had returned at least as much fire, and the enemy ship had begun to list noticeably.
Frick hurried across the rain-slicked deck, taking care not to lose his footing while keeping a low profile to avoid the occasional bullet whizzing overhead. He vaulted up the stairs to the upper deck, the bags of fresh shot and powder stowed safely in his jacket’s interior pocket. Ms. Carricker was still at the helm, a towering figure of confident strength, as she steered the ship over and between the swells.
Frick turned his back to the water to shelter his rifle against his chest as a large wave splashed up against the ship’s side, showering him with a salty spray. He shook off the water as the wave retreated, knelt beneath the railing, and began packing powder into the rifle’s barrel.
“We can’t keep this up much longer, Captain,” Ms. Carricker warned. “I can feel her struggling.”
Frick nodded. “We’ve begun taking on water in the lower decks,” he said. “Whether from the storm or cannonfire I cannot tell–but a few well-placed shots and we’ll be in trouble. Do what you can to give us an advantageous position; there’s no way out now but through.”
“Yes, Captain.”
Frick loaded the shot, and peeked over the deck railing at the enemy ship. Through the thick curtains of rain sweeping across the water between them, he could barely make out the figures on the other ship’s deck. He drew his spyglass from his pocket, made a futile effort to dry the lens with his soaked shirt, and peered across the water, resting the barrel of the spyglass on the edge of the railing to stabilize it.
Through the fuzzy, slightly-distorted image of the telescope, he saw sailors bustling on the deck of the enemy ship, loading rifles, tying off torn sails, carrying cannonballs, just as they were on his. And, there–in the midst of the bustle, standing tall as he strode amongst his crew directing the battle, was a tall elven figure, wearing a heavy coat and an imposing hat. That was likely the captain–or his first mate.
Frick carefully lifted his rifle up to the railing, resting it on the lip, and with his free hand held the spyglass to the rifle’s barrel. It was a long shot–even if he could see the target clearly, at this distance and in these conditions, with the ship heaving this much, he could easily miss. But they needed to find an advantage. If he could even wound the other man, the loss of coordination on the enemy ship might be enough to turn the battle in their favour.
Frick waited for the ship’s motion and the jitter of his hands to bring the elf into the center of the spyglass’s view, and pulled the trigger.
It was close–but wide. The shot hit the mast behind the elf with a shower of wooden splinters, and the elf turned sharply to look at the impact. His gaze snapped back over to Frick’s ship, following the direction of the shot, and he seemed for a moment to be staring directly into Frick’s spyglass. Then he turned, and began sprinting across the deck of the ship. Frick followed him with the spyglass–what was he doing? Frick looked up from the spyglass, and realized with a start–he was running for the swivel gun. He thought for a moment about trying to load another shot, but there was no time—the dwarven gunner he’d shot earlier had likely left the swivel gun loaded.
“Incoming!” Frick yelled, as he dropped his rifle and ran from the railing. Ms. Carricker looked over in surprise. He launched himself at her, wrapping his arms around her waist and using all his momentum to bear her to the deck as the railing behind him exploded. Frick felt pieces of wood pelt his back and side as the shot hit the ship’s wheel, showering the upper deck with a haze of tumbling shrapnel. He let out a grunt from a sharp pain that shot through his shoulder, as something hit and cut through his jacket. Ms. Carracker cried out in pain beneath him as well. He rolled off of her, being careful not to put weight on his injured shoulder.
“Captain, my ankle…” Carracker said, weakly.
Frick looked down—a jagged piece of the ship’s wheel was jutting out of her ankle, just above the joint. The puddles of rain and seawater on the deck planks beneath them were starting to turn reddish-brown with blood.
“Shit, okay,” he muttered. He frantically pulled his shirt from his waistband, and began tearing at it, until he had a strip of a decent length. He tied it tight above her ankle, and gently reached for the splinter. She cried out in pain, and he let go of the splinter, reconsidering. If he pulled it now, even with the tourniquet…she might bleed too much. This was bad.
Frick looked up frantically, surveying the damage and seeing if anyone was close enough to help get Ms. Carricker to safety.
The damage was bad–the shot had blown clean through the railing, and completely demolished the ship’s wheel. Short of steering by adjusting the sails manually, they had lost control of the ship. Bad enough in a battle, and potentially fatal in a storm.
The ship shuddered as a volley of cannonfire punched into her side–far down the side, from the sound of it. A chorus of shouts rose from the lower deck–the ship was taking on water, and rapidly.
The battle was lost.
“Do you think, if I help you up, you can get to a lifeboat with the splinter there?” Frick asked Ms. Carricker.
She gulped, and nodded. “Yes. Yes I think so.”
Frick squeezed her shoulder. “Good girl,” he said, and pulled her arm up over his shoulders as they stood up. His shoulder seared with aching, fiery pain as she put her weight on it, but he tried to ignore it. “To the lifeboats!” he bellowed down to the crew, as they hobbled over to the stairs.
Mr. Argo looked up sharply from an injured crewmate he was tending. “Sir!” he exclaimed in shock.
Frick shook his head. “The ship is lost, William. To the lifeboats, now! Take anyone you can. Here–” he said to Ms. Amaroso, who had hurried over—”take Ms. Carracker. Watch her ankle, and see that the doctor tends to it soon once she’s in the boat.”
“Captain, you’re coming too, aren’t you?” his first mate asked, as Frick carefully handed off the injured boatswain to Ms. Amaroso.
“I’ll be right there, Argo; I just need to run to my quarters and get some papers. We may have lost the ship, but I’ll be damned if we lose everything we've worked for!”
Mr. Argo nodded, and began directing the crew to the boats.
Frick hurried below deck, holding his shoulder as he ran. He knew exactly where the documents were–stacked neatly on his desk, in their sealskin packets. He could grab them and be back at the lifeboats in a matter of seconds.
He burst through the door to his office–the desk was clear. Envelopes were scattered across the floor. They must have been thrown from the desk in the violent heaving of the storm. Frick began hurriedly collecting them. As he picked up the final envelope, he paused–there, beneath it, was a small, slim white envelope, still closed beneath its royal seal.
“She said you refused to take it,” Queen Justinia said.
“She looked so worried–I thought it a comforting gesture. A promise to return,” Frick replied. "Our plan is only to be gone four months."
“A promise you had better keep. Just as you had better keep her letter. Wait to read it until your return if you must, but you must take it.” The Queen thrust out the small, white envelope.
“It really matters this much to her?” Frick asked.
“My daughter spent hours and days writing it. You don’t know how she fretted over its contents. You mean a great deal to her, Frick. Take the letter, if nothing else, as a gesture of your commitment to return and give her a response.”
Frick took the letter, and slipped it into his jacket pocket. “Of course I shall,” he said. “She has been a dear companion these past months; I wish nothing more than to return.”
“A wish we all share for you.”
He had been waiting to read the letter. He had thought perhaps he would wait until his return, after all. Or perhaps as a celebration–or on a rainy day.
He grabbed the letter, and stood to leave.
The ship rolled in the swell, and through the cabin window he saw the Neverwinter ship come into view, as the waves brought the ships level with each other.
Orange light bloomed all across the enemy ship, as her cannons loosed a broadside. Frick started for the door, and was hurled back into his desk as the ship exploded beneath him. The desk, floor, and walls all gave way, and then Frick was hit with the sensation of both hot and cold as the heat of the blast carried him into the cold, driving rain, fragments of his ship glittering like motes of dust in the air around him.
Frick hit the water with a heavy splash. Wave after wave surged over his head, as burning timbers slammed into the sea around him. He tried to fight to keep his head above water, but he found his arms would not work, a dull, throbbing pain in his shoulders when he tried to swim.
Captain Frick Austen sank, completely enveloped, drowning. Fragments of sail billowed around him as he fell into the deep, the dim flickering firelight from the surface casting deep rays through the murky purple sea. Frick gazed up at the surface as it receded away from him. He felt strangely calm, as the water filled his lungs. It occurred to him that perhaps, in another life, Tillia’s hair dangling over him might have resembled these alternating shafts of light and dark.
I’m sorry, Tillia , he thought. He understood now that he would not fulfill his promise to her. He wondered what the letter had said—he’d had so many opportunities to read it, but it had never seemed the right time. And now it seemed he had run out of time.
The last gasp of breath left Frick’s lungs, and with it all his fantasies of a life with Tillia, all his imagined and hoped-for futures. There would be no romantic reunion. Now, there was only the sea.
He surrendered himself to her watery embrace, as the flickering light faded behind the curtain of her dark waves. Frick closed his eyes. The sea had been his first love. Now, cold and alone, he belonged only to her–and would henceforth forever call her his home.