The early morning breeze brought salt-laden air over the cliffs, wisping strands of the boy’s hair across his ears as he sat, gazing over the horizon. Below, the jagged rocks dropped sharply toward the water. Rough waves crashed against the cliffs rhythmically, persistently, and relentlessly. It was these cliffs that protected the Draymoor from the summer storms that blew in from the Misran Sea.
“Draymoor is the only bay on the northern shore that is safe for ships.”
The old man’s voice came from behind him, near the peak of the cliffs. They’d climbed the hill together that morning, as they often did, to watch the last of the morning fog fade under the rising sun. As the scenery cleared, various ships could be seen atop the water below.
For the boy, there was always a chance of seeing something new.
“The shore is to the south,” the boy said. “It’s the southern shore.”
The old man shrugged and let out a slight huff through his nose. The boy was always particular with his words.
“Maybe,” he said. “If you’re looking at it from the land sure, the shore is to the south.”
He paused, letting the thought settle. The boy turned toward him, brow wrinkled.
“If you’re looking at it from the sea, as the sailors do,” he continued, “the shore is to the north.”
The boy turned back to the sea, eyes moving from ship to ship. His mind shifted, and for a moment he could see the cliffs from their eyes. The formidable coastline, unwelcoming, stretching for miles in either direction around the mouth of the river. Only there, near the cliff, did it offer a reprieve and the promise of safety.
“I’m stupid,” he said, laughing. “It is the north shore.”
“You’re not stupid,” the old man snapped. “It’s a matter of perspective.”
He stepped closer and sat next to the boy, grunting as he lowered himself onto a flat stone. He pushed his hair, white as snow, back behind his ears and raised his left hand to shield his eyes from the rising sun. Squinting, he pointed at one of the large ships on the water.
“That one,” he said. “Where do you think it’s from?”
The boy looked at the old man, then traced his arm town toward the sea. A low, rounded hull of dark timber rode across the water smoothly, unbothered by the waves. A single square sail hung off the stout mast, patched in mismatched cloth. Oars lined both sides, though he couldn’t quite make out how many there were at that distance. The stern of the ship was built up like a squat home meant for living in, if only temporarily.
“That’s a merchant ship,” the boy said confidently.
The old man nodded. “Well done, but that wasn’t what I asked.”
The boy frowned, then imagined what type of goods the ship might be carrying. Merchants traveled up the coast from lands far away, which meant the cargo could be nearly anything.
“Probably salted fish,” he guessed. “Maybe grain for the city upriver.”
The old man sighed.
“You have to think bigger than that,” he said. “Fish and grain aren’t interesting for a ship that could’ve come from anywhere.”
The boy’s mouth wrinkled again.
“Don’t worry about being right,” the old man added. “What do you think they’re carrying?”
Now the boy smiled. When most people asked a question, they wanted a real answer. But when the old man asked, it was different. He gave the boy permission to dream.
“Dragon eggs.”
Now the old man’s brow raised. “Dragon eggs?”
The boy nodded.
“Not for eating,” he clarified. “The ones from the swamps, the ones that guard the river. They’re bringing them here to take them to city, and the Legion is going to raise them for riding.”
“Oh,” the old man said with surprise. “Dragons for the Legion?”
“Yes,” the boy said.
He could see it already - Legion elites riding on the backs of a scaled, armored serpent with a long jaw full of teeth like stakes. Only the bravest and strongest warriors would be able to handle them, and it would surely be enough to strike fear into any enemy or beast the Legion was sent to cull.
“That’s certainly more interesting,” the old man admitted.
For a moment, he let the boy’s mind wander, then pointed to another ship. Different than the last, and much smaller. A single narrow hull with a small triangular sail, and two beams connecting it to an outrigger.
“What about that one?”
The boy shook his head.
“That’s just a fisherman,” he said. “It’s too small to be anything else.”
“‘Just’ a fisherman?”
The boy nodded, noting the old man’s tone.
“Your father is a fisherman,” the old man said. He watched the boy carefully.
The boy looked to his feet.
“It is a father’s duty to leave his family sometimes,” the old man added. He let his gaze drift away from the boy, back to the horizon.
In the distance a horn sounded, deep enough to feel in the chest, long enough to know it was no longer early.
“Come on,” he said, grunting as he stood, then turning toward the path back down the hill. “Better get you back to your mother.”
“Okay grandpa,” the boy replied.
One ship crossed the wake of another, and even over the crashing waves the boy could hear the sailors shouting at each other and laughing. He hopped to his feet quickly, dropping into a squat, then jumping, turning as he did to face the path. His feet kicked up dust behind him as he ran in place, building up speed in his mind, then sprinted after the old man.
The town was bustling with activity, and for good reason. House Minas had been working for months to build their latest sea-going vessel, a new type of cargo ship designed by the best engineers the House could afford. They’d been working on the project for years, researching, acquiring rare supplies and materials from across the Heartlands. Even in Draymoor, the House had gone door to door to ask people to donate what they could to support the effort.
They’d billed it as something that could finally conquer the deep sea. To travel beyond the horizon, reach distant shores, discover new lands and peoples. Word of the project even garnered interest among the wealthy families in Timbur Deep, many of whom would arrive in Draymoor to witness the ships maiden voyage. It was a symbol of hope in a time when people desperately needed it.
“We’ve dreamed of conquering the seas for generations,” the old man said as they walked past the docks. “We get closer each time.”
The boy slowed, moving his head to try and get a glimpse of the ship between the legs of workers. The old man tugged at his hand to keep moving.
“It looks the same as the others,” he said, “just with a bigger house on the back.”
The old man laughed.
“Does it?” he said, pointing upward.
The boy’s eyes followed his finger, then widened.
“Oooh it has two of… what are those again?” he said in wonder.
“Masts.”
“Masts,” the boy repeated. “And the cloths are sails?”
“That’s right.”
The ship itself was like those he’d seen earlier on the water. Rounded hull. Dark timber. Its bow built high above the water, meant to push through waves rather than slipping between them. A cabin rose above the rear of the ship, squat, something that looked like it was meant for living in. Only this one was both longer and wider. Wooden pegs held coils of rope, and several barrels had already been loaded aboard. The ship was nearly ready to survive the coming argument with the sea.
The boy’s mother was less optimistic.
“You keep feeding his daydreams!”
He could hear her scolding the old man. Even though they were in another room, her whispers found their way through the rotted boards of their shack.
“The boy isn’t like his father,” the old man whispered back.
The boy stayed near the wall of his bedroom, peering through the cracks in the wood. In the living room, his mother stood square in front of the old man, arms folded. Frail in body she might be, but her spirit lacked no fire. The old man knew this well.
“His father is a drunk,” she snapped.
“I won’t argue that,” the old man conceded.
He stepped backward, turning slightly toward the door. The boy’s mother crowded the space between them.
“Stop filling his head with nonsense,” she warned.
The old man nodded, then pulled the wooden handle. The weathered door opened with a dull creak. He said no more as he stepped outside. The boy’s mother stood there as his steps faded beyond the walls. As she turned toward the boy’s room, he quietly slipped away from the wall. The door opened, and his mother stepped inside.
She looked at the boy and sighed.
“He doesn’t care about you,” she said, kneeling, her hands coming to the boy’s shoulders. She looked him straight in the eyes. “He doesn’t care about anyone.”
The boy was confused.
“He knows a lot…”
She shook her head, cutting him off.
“His head is full of useless fantasies,” she said. She brushed the boy’s hair aside with her hand, smiling gently.
A dozen reasons they were not useless or fantasies came to his mind. The boy parted his lips but swallowed the thought before his breath escaped. He knew his mother well. It was better to agree with her than argue, especially when he knew something she did not.
Instead, he nodded.
“Good,” she said. “Now I want you to go to the port and tell the master you need an advance on your father’s wages. Then stop by the wine stall on your way back and bring a bottle home for mama.”
The boy’s head rolled back.
“Why do I always have to go?” he whined.
She stood, her smile disappearing.
“They won’t give it to me,” she said. “They will give it to you.”
A groan escaped the boy’s throat as his shoulders went slack, arms drooping as he shuffled toward the door.
“Ahem!” the boy’s mother grunted.
He turned halfway. Her hand was held out toward him, her skeletal fingers pointed toward the floor. The boy took a step closer, then leaned forward. He planted a kiss on her papery skin.
“Bleh!” he complained, turning back toward the door.
The boy’s mother laughed fondly, just once, but said no more.
That his mother loved him was not a question - she’d often tell anyone who’d listen that the reason she had a child was so that she would have someone to love who would never leave her. Many children came into the world in a similar way, birthed to ease a mother’s loneliness, already given a job before they’d taken their first breath.
With fathers… It was sometimes more difficult to know.
“Where the fuck is the money!”
The man’s voice echoed through the small shack, piercing the darkness. It was common for them to argue in the evenings, and this night was no different than any other.
The boy crept closer to the wall, peering through the cracks in the wood. His father stood in the living room, shirt stained with sweat, hide trousers bearing streaks of blood where he’d undoubtedly wiped his knife while processing the day’s catch. He was already drunk, as was the boy’s mother.
“There is no money!” she snapped back. Though she barely came above his shoulders, she showed no fear before the man.
The man clenched his jaw, fingers calloused from saltwater and rope curled into fists.
“I’m out there all fucking day and you take everything before I get back to shore!”
“I didn’t take anything,” she said. “We are just surviving on scraps while you’re gone!”
The boy’s lips straightened, corners of his mouth dropped. She always answered questions with half-truths. It was her way of protecting them.
The man slammed his fist against the wall, the candle flickering as he moved. The wood splintered and cracked beneath his knuckles.
The woman walked up behind him and for a moment the arguing continued. Empty accusations, bold threats, and other poisons traded back and forth. The boy watched through the cracks, never sure if the storm would calm or if something else would happen.
Eventually the woman reached for the man’s hand. He pulled away sharply, kept his back to her.
She grinned.
Reached again.
This time he didn’t pull away.
Her voice shifted down, becoming a whisper. The boy couldn’t understand what they were saying, but their voices were still like burning coals. She pulled his father’s hand, turning him around.
She took a step forward to close the distance between them.
The boy turned and sat with his back to the wall. He knew what came next. He pulled his knees to his chest and buried his face between them. His father’s deep voice vibrated through the old wood, short statements slipped between his mother’s whispers. Soon the sound changed. First to grunts. Then moans. A sharp clapping sound came with it, the time between claps drawing shorter as it continued.
The boy tried to imagine he was somewhere else.
He imagined the river dragons. Not ones ridden by Legion troops, but wild dragons. The sound became that of the dragons feasting on a fallen ox, or other beast of the wild. The boy stood among them. He could feel their breath, smell their stink.
He smiled.
The vision faded quickly, and he realized the room had gone silent. The boy lifted his head, straining his ears.
The door to his room flung open, the flickering amber light spilled inside. His father stepped into his room then stopped. He stood there naked, looked around. Then sat on the edge of a large wooden tub, a drunken belch rising as he leaned forward.
The boy just watched.
The man lifted his eyes and found the boy. He stilled.
“What?” he slurred.
The boy remained silent. The man cleared his throat and grunted. A dull thud followed, the like mud dropping onto wood.
The boy tucked his head between his knees again. Took a deep breath in. Then returned to the dragons.
Cold air saturated the room as the boy woke the next day, the morning sea fog still waiting for the sun to command it away. The shack was still, disrupted by the snoring in the open living room. Only the seabirds were busy outside, calling to one another in long shrieks.
The boy slipped into his small boots and crept quietly into the next room. He imagined himself as an assassin, the kind trained by the Empire to enter a room silent as a cat then fight an entire army if things went wrong. He’d practiced nearly every day. At least the sneaking part.
His father lay on the floor face down. Still naked. A small pool of spittle around his mouth. The boy watched him for a moment, stepping close enough to see clearly, but careful to stay out of arms reach should the man awaken. He’d caught enough stray hands when trying to wake his father to know it was best to keep some distance, even if the man was asleep.
Across the room, his mother had fallen asleep at the table. She’d covered herself with a wool blanket and snored nearly as loud as his father, though not at the same pace. He watched her for a moment, then froze as the door to the shack yawned open.
The old man had arrived.
He stood in the doorway watching the boy. His eyes shifted to the man on the floor, then to the boy’s mother at the table. His mouth wrinkled, and he let out a sigh through his nose.
“Do you want to watch it?” he whispered.
The boy nodded.
The old man nodded toward the street.
“Get your coat,” he said. “Cold out here.”
By the time they approached the docks, the sun had begun to clear the fog and both the village’s residents and visitors gathered in the streets. Near the grand ship, viewing platforms had been built that ensured wealthy benefactors would have the best view. The village’s guards monitored nearly every corner, while Legion troops in cured hide armor stood near the platform stairs, hands resting on the hilts of short bronze swords. They paid no mind to the boy as they walked by.
“Before the ceremony, I have to take care of something,” the old man said.
The crowd began to thicken, murmurs and whispers shared between townsfolk. Some laughed at each other’s jokes, others argued over whether the ship would even make it out of the mouth of the river. The boy paced three full steps before he said anything.
“Papa pooped in the tub.”
The old man’s stride slowed, but never stopped.
Two more paces.
“Were you in it?” the old man asked.
The boy’s face wrinkled.
“Ewww, no!”
The old man grinned. “Well that’s good.”
The two wove their way toward a small shop at the corner where the main street met a small alley. There, the old man told the boy to wait outside while he went in.
“I have to speak to a man about rent,” he explained.
The boy watched the crowd continue to build. People pointed toward the ship, the tall masts of which could be seen from quite a distance away. They argued over whether two sails would make it faster than a single sail. Over whether the gods would welcome man to the open sea or strike him down. The voices came fragmented, one stepping over another to reach his ears.
“…new opportunity…”
“…stupid legends…”
It was a cascade of noise before a smaller, sharper voice rang through clearly. It came from behind him, in the alley.
“We told you not to come back here.”
The young boy turned toward the alley. Three other boys were walking toward him, along with a girl. He knew her, and at one time in their lives they were friends. He’d dreamed of marrying her one day, even fashioning a ring from a small piece of vine. When he asked for her hand, her answer came in the form of a rock’s kiss to his forehead.
Seeing her now, he could still feel the warmth of the blood as it trickled down his face.
“I’m not,” the boy replied. “I’m just waiting for my grandpa.”
“That old man is stupid,” one of the other boys said.
They stepped closer, spreading out to flank the young boy on either side. The girl stayed behind the largest one, just off to the side. Her simple dress fluttered with a slight breeze.
“He’s not stupid,” the young boy said. “He can see what other people see, so he knows what they know.”
“That’s dumb!” the boy to his right shouted into his ear.
“He’s weird!” the girl shouted. “And you’re weird!”
The boys laughed. The larger boy reached out, shoving his shoulder, pushing him back against the wall of the building. He winced as the sharp siding dug into his spine.
“I’m not weird!” the young boy shouted.
A fist immediately slammed into his abdomen, claiming the rest of his breath. The boy to his left leaned back, raised his leg, and planted his boot into the young boy’s arm, sending him to the ground.
Their taunts became background noise as they kicked at him. Even the girl stepped forward and planted her toes into his sternum. The young boy tucked into himself as best he could, but he could not draw in far enough. He wasn’t sure when the ringing in his ears started, but it grew louder with each blow, until it stopped.
“Damn rats!”
The old man’s voice bellowed through the alley. Immediately the blows stopped, and the attackers tried to scatter. The old man gripped one by the back of the shirt and flung him to the side, then leaned down to help the young boy as the other children ran down the alley, away from the main street.
As the young boy sat up, the old man examined him. He gripped his chin, turned his face to the side. Red lines formed where the child’s cheek had scraped against the ground.
“Do I have blood?” the child asked, trying to recover his breath.
“No,” the old man said plainly. “Just muck.”
A tear ran down the boy’s cheek. He sniffled, breath stuttering. The old man offered no sympathy.
“Don’t do that,” he said.
Then he stood, nodded toward the main street. “Come on.”
The young boy gathered himself. Wiped the tear with his sleeve. Took a deep breath, held it a moment, and then let it out sharply.
He followed the old man to the main street, and toward possibility.
“…beautiful…”
“…cost a fortune…”
“…wish I could go…”
The voices in the crowd grew louder now as the hour approached. People lined the docks and the path that circled around the hill. Everyone wanted to see the ship launch. See it sail through the mouth of the river. Watch it enter the sea.
Some doubted it would even float.
They were almost immediately scolded, laughed at, or both.
The young boy had been swept up by the crowd. He wore a smile that would not be denied, eyes full of wonder as he stared at the great ship. The old man had hoisted him onto his shoulders to make sure he could see. In his mind he could already see the great wonders beyond the horizon. The great cities the ship could reach. The places it could go where no one had been before.
“It doesn’t have any oars,” the boy said, puzzled.
The old man laughed. “It isn’t supposed to.”
“Why?”
“It isn’t designed to stop anywhere that isn’t deep enough for it,” the old man said, “or wide enough for it to turn on its own.”
The vessel sat in the water like she’d always belonged there. Men who’d spent months carefully carving, crafting, nailing, sealing, now stood in the crowd with their wives and sons. They spoke of the ship with great pride, as if it were a thing birthed rather than built. In the raised stands, groups of nobles stood in delicate furs and colorful silks while their Legion escorts stood guard. Someone had strung paper lanterns along the railings since they’d come by earlier.
The young boy wondered why they’d chosen lanterns if they weren’t going to be lit. But it didn’t matter. This was a time for celebrating. The sea would be conquered today. And with it, the world would become much bigger.
“Friends!”
The voice came from atop the rear of the ship. The crowd responded with broken cheers and applause. A man stood atop dressed in fine black silks, pressed neatly. His hair drawn back and slick with grease. He looked over the crowd with a broad smile, genuinely pleased. He held his hands out, palms down, lowering them slowly. The young boy was amazed at his control over the crowd as they quieted in response.
“Today is a great day for the Empire!” he continued. “The ship may belong to House Minas, but make no mistake - this is a celebration for all of us. Today, we launch the magnificent! Today, we conquer the sea! Today, we prove to the gods that we, their faithful servants, are equipped to inherit the world they’ve promised!”
The crowd cheered. The young boy smiled.
“A special thank you to our generous benefactors,” the man said, holding his hand out toward the raised platforms. The crowd cheered again. The nobles smiled, turned to show themselves to the crowd, bowing slightly. The crowd quieted again as the man continued his speech.
“We spared no expense,” he said. “Every reason other ships have failed has been found, fixed, and nailed shut. This is a triumph for all humankind. It is with great pleasure, ladies and gentlemen, that I present to you: The Empire’s Mercy.”
As his speech reached its crescendo, a cloth tarp dropped from the rear of the ship, revealing the name painted onto it in bold green and gold lettering. Where most people saw simple sigils, the boy read the name clearly. He clapped vigorously, his core tightening with excitement.
The man climbed down from the ship, and sailors began to make it ready to depart. To the side, a troop of musicians atop another raised platform played a melody on stringed instruments that only added to the fervor. The crowd changed shape, with many running toward the path leading to the sea. Everyone wanted to watch it sail forth.
The old man knew where to go.
He set the young boy back on the ground. They looked at each other.
“Ready?” the old man said with a wink.
The young boy nodded with a smile. Together they rushed to the path leading up to the top of the hill. The crowd behind them cheered loudly as the ship unfurled its sails and began to move. The cheers faded into the background as the old man and the boy climbed until, at last, they reached the top.
There, they waited.
The young boy ran to the side, then back to the stone he’d sat on the day before.
Then ran to the side.
Then back to the stone.
The old man smirked.
“You’re going to see it you know,” he said.
“But I can’t see it,” the young boy replied.
He ran to the side.
Then back to the stone.
The old man simply eased himself down onto the stone. Folded his hands in his lap, and waited.
Finally, along the edge of the cliffs below, people started to flow out onto the trail. The ship was nearing the mouth of the river and would soon reach the sea. Cheers grew louder and louder, until finally, the point of the ship emerged from behind the cliffs.
The young boy cheered, throwing both hands in the air, hopping up and down.
“Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!” he cried.
The old man remained stoic.
“Lets see the break,” he muttered.
The ship continued moving, both sails full with wind, pushing the great vessel toward the Misran Sea. Other ships nearby pulled their sails down and watched. Nothing so great had been seen in these waters, and everyone was in awe.
It was the best time of the year for such a voyage. Both the river and the winds moved in the direction of the open sea. Soon the Empire’s Mercy had crossed the point where the water changed color, and tasted the salty sea for the first time. The young boy could see small figures moving around the deck, pulling ropes, maneuvering the sails, and many who simply cheered back at the crowd.
Then, it did something other ships did not - it continued directly toward the horizon.
“They did it Grandpa!” the boy shouted.
The old man smiled. “Perhaps they did.”
The young boy continued to pace across the hilltop excitedly.
“They’re going to find all kinds of things!” he muttered. “Dragons! Gold! New lands! New people!”
Soon the ship had faded to the size of a thumb, a single moving object against an indigo background, white lines trailing out behind it. The boy’s energy had begun to run dry, and he sat next to the old man. The crowd on the cliffs below, too, had grown tired, and began to disperse. A few remained, watching the ship as it headed for the heart of the sea.
As the sun began to fade in the west, its orange hues reflected off the surface of the water. The Empire’s Mercy had become barely more than a speck, though the young boy could still make out its dual masts. He’d leaned his head against his grandfather’s arm, eyes threatening to close.
The old man stood sharply. The young boy looked at him. The old man’s eyes narrowed, he was focused on the ship.
The young boy held his hand to the side, shielding his eyes from the sun. He watched the masts of the ship shift abruptly, first to one side, then the other. A moment later there was a low sound, like a tree had fallen somewhere distant.
He squinted.
The water around the ship began to turn white. The ship lurched to the side, and something erupted from the water next to it. Thick. Long. Gray.
It moved like a rope, but far too quickly.
Cries from the people who had stayed on the path below reached the hilltop. The boy looked down to see people covering their eyes. Some were crying. Others ran.
He looked back to the ship.
It was gone.
He looked around frantically trying to find it.
“Where did it go?” he asked.
The old man took a deep breath, letting it out through his nose.
“Use your mind,” he said. “Can you imagine where they are?”
The young boy focused. He tried to imagine what the coast might look like from where the ship had been. Imagine what had come from the water.
“I don’t know!” his eyes began to well. “I don’t see anything.”
The old man let his eyes fall to the ground.
“They’re gone,” he said solemnly.
“No…” the boy protested.
The old man nodded slowly.
“Come on,” he said. “We’d best get you back to your mother.”
He took the boy’s hand and pulled. They moved toward the path, then back toward the village. The young boy continued to look over his shoulder toward the sea. He sniffed. Rubbed his nose with his sleeve.