Chapter 78: 77. Blood on the Ice

Captain Gelarin couldn’t remember the last time that his men had lost an entire city. In fact, he hadn’t heard of such an event ever happening in Summarkan sailing tradition, at least not on the Arguin. Of course, the Mirrored Lake wasn’t often engulfed in quite such a thick fog.

 

He could see maybe ten enchia ahead of the bow, which had forced them to stop in the night and wait, as continuing might mean they hit a floating chunk of ice big enough to damage the hull. Even the back of the ship was impossible to see from the front, and if there was a man on the colg’s nest Captain Gelarin didn’t think he’d have much of a view either. All in all, it was a sailor’s worst nightmare.

 

And yet, he still hadn’t expected that they’d just miss Cice entirely. How did that even happen? The Arguin was big, but it was also full of traffic on the worst of days, and even ice-breakers weren’t uncommon in the height of winter. And the mountains rising out of its depths were large indeed and difficult to miss. So how was it possible to just sail past a city without seeing a single sign of its existence?

 

Gelarin sighed. He couldn’t blame the men too much, not in this. Even if he was being uncharitable, it’d been a good few months since the last time they’d sailed, and that had been a good few months of marching through mountains and forest. 

 

After getting his commands from the young prince Astrian, Gelarin had taken the lengthy trek back up the plateau with his men and taken a few boats from the docks at Cinion. From there it’d been a week of boring sailing upon the waters while they waited to make it to Minua. Sailing wasn’t an adventure in Summark, normally, not with how remarkably calm the waters tended to be, but that made for bored men. Not that he’d have it any other way, of course. He might complain about the odd bump or gust of wind, he knew that things could be much, much worse.

 

Though I’d still rather be down in the lowlands. Gelarin grumbled to himself. Anything’s better than sailing.

 

He knew the colgs in the hold probably agreed with him on that, though they had a far rougher time of it. Gelarin knew they’d go crazy when they finally made landfall after a trip like this, having been cooped up for far longer than they were happy with. His men would too, though they seldom complained about something as simple as having to wait. Even now, most of them had retreated below deck hours ago, leaving only the odd unhappy sentry to stare into the walls of white. The mist wasn’t good for cards, after all, even the thick wooden ones soldiers typically brought with them.

 

“Captain!” A voice called from the mist.

 

Gelarin turned around, finding only his aide, a squirrelly boy by the name of Heril, behind him. The boy was actually Gelarin’s sister’s son, brought on to help out and ‘get some experience’ before he apprenticed himself to a thaumaturge. Gelarin suspected the real reason she’d offered him was so that he’d feel obliged to train the boy himself when he came of age, but Gelarin wasn’t one to turn away willing hands. 

 

He nodded as Heril approached, signalling him to continue.

 

“The Of Arctic Song has urgent news!” He said quickly before turning back, as if expecting Gelarin to follow.

 

This lad sometimes. Gelarin thought. All sprint, no run.

 

“Wait.” He commanded, causing the boy to stop in his tracks. “And what news is that? Surely if it’s urgent you can tell me immediately and not make me wait until we’ve walked across the entire ship?”

 

The vast majority of the time, the ‘urgent news’ turned out to be something completely pointless, or something that he could solve by sending a message to someone else. He hadn’t expected it when he’d joined up, but the military always seemed to find new and ‘interesting’ ways to waste his time. Of course, that was slightly better than the alternative of him having to find his own ways to waste his time.

 

“Oh! Of course, sir!” Heril gave him a proper salute, which Gelarin found almost amusing on a kid like him. “Captain Gelarin! Of Arctic Song reports that twenty-one ships have responded to the check-in signal, sir! Sir Trent’s asking for your presence in the signal room, sir!”

 

“Twenty-one? Are they sure someone didn’t signal twice by mistake?” Gelarin asked.

 

“Sir! They said they’ve repeated the call twice, sir! The new ship confirms its presence, sir! Sir Trent says they’re asking for your command, sir!”

 

“Aye, enough with all that ‘sir’ing, I’m coming.”

 

“Yes si-” Heril clipped his shout off with a nod before turning back towards the stairwell.

 

Gelarin knew it unfortunately wasn’t unheard of to lose a ship or two in the dark, especially in the middle of winter with the ice floating around, but he’d never heard of a fleet gaining ships mid journey. He wasn’t sure what to think of the matter, though he surmised that if they were under an inexplicable ambush he probably would’ve heard about it by now.

 

Of Grounded Stone, the ship Gelarin rode, was somewhat large for a lakecraft, though it had nothing on proper warships. There were three decks if one counted the top, with enough space to hold a crew of thirty, cargo, and fifty passengers and their colgs. Its current load had replaced the crew with Gelarin’s own men, however, as every thaumaturge in Summark knew the basics of sailoring. The ship itself sat low and long upon the water, and probably would’ve seemed to him like a wonder of carpentry if Gelarin hadn’t been forced to become intimately familiar with its rolling bunks over his many years of service. Yet again Gelarin cursed as he descended into its murky belly.

 

It was dark inside, lit only by cheap blue lamps nailed to the walls. The second deck was home to a small common room where the men bumped elbows playing cards, reading books, and practising magic, but that wasn’t where Gelarin was headed today. Instead, he followed Heril down the next flight of stairs and past the cargo hold with all its chirping colgs and stacks of barrels. Then they headed to the back of the ship, where a small dark door was cut into the wall. After a quick knock, Gelarin let himself and Heril inside.

 

If the top deck of the ship had made Gelarin feel imprisoned, the signalling room was his worst nightmare. It was dark, silent, and cramped, with only enough room for a single desk and two chairs. A large window just two enchia wide was placed in the back from which water and the occasional fish could be seen. Dark patterns of rippling light played on the walls in marine patterns as beams of light strafed the ship. A focused lantern, currently shuttered, pointed out the window from which it could be used to transmit signals under the water to a designated signal ship at the centre of the flotilla. There was another room like this on the front of the ship, though the poor soul manning that station was probably even more bored out of his skull.

 

The signal room was placed under the waterline so as to communicate more reliably in conditions such as this, and Gelarin couldn’t but thank the stars it was. There used to be a secretive element to it too, but all other vessels on the Arguin had long since adopted the method and rendered that particular advantage obsolete. 

 

I wonder if this would even work on the ocean. Gelarin wondered as the mage inside acknowledged them.

 

“Boy’s told ye?” Trent asked.

 

“Basics. What’s Arctic’s Song saying? We gained a ship? A lost merchant carrier maybe?”

 

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Trent shook his head, and a brief flash of light played over his face as a signal light passed over the ship. He glanced at it for only a moment before addressing Gelarin.

 

“Nay, sir. Say they’re using Ostiper lamps. The officer ‘board the Song doesn’t know them, ‘course, so I’ve been proxy’ng for last quarter bell. Pitching useless, the lot of them. Don’t know how they handle even the surface signals if this is what trips-”

 

“And what have they transmitted?” Gelarin interrupted. “The extra ship, that is.”

 

“Whole lotta confusion, so far. They’re light on the details…” Trent grinned. “But it seems they’re part of their own little fleet by the way they’re signalling. Can’t see them in the mist, mind you, but I’d bet a good thirty australs they’ve warship markings.”

 

“Warships?” Gelarin started. “This far north? Are you sure?”

 

Trent nodded, glancing away for another moment as another flash of light passed over the window.

 

“No trade matchbox’d be running those signals up here, not even a damned Ostiper one.”

 

“Ostipers north of Cice…” Gelarin muttered. “Can’t be good.”

 

Gelarin couldn’t imagine what they could want. Were they raiders? That happened sometimes when the Markee pissed off Duke Neanlin, but they are normally scared off by a fleet as big as Gelarin’s, and they certainly wouldn’t approach twenty other signal lamps swiping through the water. No, that must mean that the Ostipers aboard actually expected that many other ships to be nearby. Which meant they brought a fleet, and that could only mean one thing.

 

“Minua.” Gelarin suddenly said. “They’re making for Minua.”

 

Trent frowned as he realised the same, and he quickly jumped on the lamp and fired off a series of signals towards the Of Arctic’s Song. Within a minute, the whole of the lake in between their fleet was lit up with signals like a constellation of falling stars. Knowing the all too common flurry they often accompanied, Gelarin couldn’t help but let dread build in his chest at the show.

 

“Tell the closest ship to-” Gelarin began.

 

“Already on it, sir.” Trent said. “Of South Wind’s moving to intercept.”

 

“What’s going on?” Heril asked with a shaky voice. “Wasn’t that ship just lost? Are we attacking?”

 

“Quiet. Trent, tell them to stay casts.” Gelarin warned. “I don’t want to be the first to fire in case we’re wrong. They are to halt and board if they can.”

 

“Understood.”

 

“We… we are.” The blood left Heril’s face. “But the mist! We can’t see them!”

 

“We don’t need to see them to manoeuvre.” Gelarin said. “We need to act quickly in case they outnumber us. Scratch that, there’s no way they don’t outnumber us if they were going for Minua. They could be all around us for all we know. Heril, go alert the men. Action in quarter bell. Then tell the front signal mage to keep his eyes peeled for enemy lamps. I want to know if they’re in front of us.”

 

“Ye…Yes, sir!” 

 

Heril bolted out of the room, leaving the two men to worry in silence. Light continued to strafe the ship as signallers worked and warships moved, but Gelarin didn’t bother giving any more orders. Trent had been Gelarin’s main signal mage for long enough to know what needed to happen, and any spoken orders would just be wasted breath. It was only slightly different on a ship from on the surface, after all, and a signal mage was required to master both.

 

Despite his own instincts, Gelarin kept on hoping that it wasn’t what he feared, that they just so happened to stumble upon a confused trading fleet. They’d accept a boarding, they’d all laugh in the captain’s room, and they’d leave each other when the mist left. Then Gelarin wouldn’t have to give the order to engage, to strike forth blindly into that confusing quagmire he knew awaited just overhead. This could all be resolved underwater without a single spell being cast.

 

After only a few minutes, however, Trent cursed, and Gelarin could only watch as his dreams of a peaceful night slowly began to die.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

“Ostip’s broke off. They’re running alert signals, battle lamps.” Trent looked up Gelarin. “Still, they could be just as lost and confused as we are, sir. Might end bad if we fight.”

 

“It ended bad once we caught their signal.” Gelarin sighed. “Prince Corto told me to defend Minua to the best of my abilities, and that now involves stopping that fleet. We can’t wait to clear this up if they’ve brought enough men to besiege the city. Give the order to engage. Tell the other ships to blind them. We’ll want them confused and afraid as long as possible.”

 

“Right away, sir.”

 

“And may Brionin defend us all.”

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