Ryger Stonefist's page

With a groan of old wood, the squat, single-mast ship rocked as the river emptied into the sea. The sandy bars along both sides fell away and then there was only the sea, a never-ending blue-green expanse. The horizon looked impossibly far away, as though it had taken giant steps back, and was maybe even still retreated before them. And beyond, the edge of the world.

Ryger Stonefist's stomach dropped into his worn boots. The crash of the waves upon the hull thundered. He redoubled his grip on the rail, squeezing until it seemed the wood must give way, should his name hold true.

The rail held, and after a moment, the world snapped back into focus. He'd felt much the same his first time upon the cliffs of the Wyvern Mountains, that queer sense of shrinking in on oneself in the face of something so huge and awe-inspiring (and not just a little frightening). A sense of unease lingered this time, however. He turned his eyes to the coast at their back. He'd always been adept at climbing. Swimming, however, was another matter entire.

The sail swelled, shoving the ship forward into the churning waves. A cry went up amongst the sailors, and though it was in Varisian, Ryger thought it was a shout of joy. The ship rode over one wave and down the next, a rolling motion that Ryger's stomach mimicked. He set his feet beneath him. To little good.

He was still leaning over the rail, tendrils of yellow spit dangling from his lips, when Captain Gottan came upon him.

The captain clasped him roughly on the shoulder and said something in his thick, heavily accented Common. Ryger had a hard time understanding him under normal circumstances.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his arm. "Eh?"

"Are you finding the sea rough?"

"That may be the word for it." He wondered, not for the first time, if his tongue sounded equally queer to the Varisian, but the captain nodded amiably and smiled. His temperament had been improving as they neared their destination, a port city called Sandbar or some such, though Ryger still had the distinct impression that the captain wanted nothing more than to throw him over the side. He'd taken to sleeping with a dagger tucked close after the first night, but his fears had been unfounded.

Captain Gottan threaded his hands over his considerable gut and looked to the empty sea. It seemed a foolhardy thing for a fat man to spend his life on the water, but maybe fat men floated better than most. "We made good time. Not good enough. We'll lose money, no mistake there." At this, the lines around his mouth tightened. He glanced sidelong at Ryger.

The merchant ship was laden with supplies meant for a festival. They'd been a day late in getting out of port at Biston, which had nothing at all to do with Ryger. He'd come upon the ship while it was still being loaded. And though the captain had no time for 'barbarians', he'd listened well enough when Ryger had up-ended his pouch. It'd taken most of his coin to secure passage, but it hadn't really been his.

The coin pouch rested lightly against his thigh, somehow feeling heavy despite the absence of any real weight. He'd need to find money, and quickly. His stores were dreadfully low. And though he'd always been good at foraging, this land was foreign to him. He was like to poison himself.

The captain shrugged. "We missed the start of the festival, but when do men need an excuse to drink? Huh? The casks of Ashwood Red should fetch a fine price. As for you." He looked him over, evaluating. "What will you do next?"

Truthfully, he hadn't thought much on that. His one and immediate goal had been to get as far from the Cinderlands as possible. Captain Gottan's map had most like been inked in Varisian text, but Ryger didn't know his letters in any language so that hardly mattered. The captain had traced the path along with a chubby finger. It had looked far enough on the parchment. Even so, he'd spent the past fortnight looking back instead of forward.

Ryger shrugged. "See the land. Maybe do a bit of work."

The captain snorted. "You got a trade, boy? Might be I can help you there. Always need of strong backs at the oars. Pay is two coppers a day, plus board."

"Living on the water like this is tiring. My feet are meant for the ground."

Captain Gottan's eyes narrowed. "Might be you want to reconsider that. Sandpoint has no place for hungry mouths."

Ryger looked away, biting off the insult before it could spring from his mouth. He wasn't done with the captain just yet. No sense in drowning this close to his destination.

The ship was angling toward a bend in the land. He spotted smoke in the distance, a smudge of black against the sky. "What's that?"

Captain Gottan followed his gaze. He shielded his eyes, sunlight glinting off his jeweled rings. "I see nothing."

"Smoke, over top the land." It was still some distance away, but with each passing moment, Ryger became more sure that something was burning. Or had been.

The captain said something under his breath but continued to survey the horizon. He started suddenly, leaning into the railing. After a moment he shouted something to one of the sailors, a wiry man with thinning gray hair. The sailor started up the sail at once, clambering over the criss-crossing beams. In little enough time, he flipped himself into a man-sized basket perched on top. He put a looking glass to his eye and shouted something down to the captain.

"Smoke on the horizon," Captain Gottan said. "Sandpoint."

The ship followed as the land curled in on itself, opening into a bay. Though still at some distance, they could see a town nestled along the shoreline. Clouds of black smoke billowed from the buildings. The wind from the sea pushed the smoke further inland, obscuring much of the town.

Ryger's first thought was that his father had done it. Somehow he'd determined where Ryger was going and had led the clan down from the great plateau. But, of course, that was impossible. His father was dead. Still, Bron Stonefist's anger had been a terrible thing. Even in death, Ryger feared it.

The ship moved toward the burnt town. All the while the captain muttered in Varisian. They anchored several hundred feet from the port. People milled about. Some carried weapons and looked ready for a fight, but most were busy with putting out fires or helping wounded. Whatever happened, they had missed it by some time.

Captain Gottan's face was dark. "This trip has been a complete waste."

"It looks like it's over. Shouldn't we put into port and see about helping?"

"What would I be doing? Getting the survivors drunk?"

"What if they return? Whoever did this, I mean."

"Then better we are here, where we can sail away safe." Captain Gottan waved a hand at him. "You will go now." It appeared the offer had been taken from the table.

The raft lowered to the water with a muffled splash. At once, the man on the oars started pulling hard, sending the little boat toward the battered town. Waves lapped at the boat with gentle slaps.

Ryger's mind wandered. Though his people couldn't have done this, they would be looking for him. Plytus, his younger brother. Aremeni, to whom, he realized with chagrin, he was still promised. Old Uncle Seltin, his only true friend. Leaving without saying goodbye to him had cut the deepest.

They would all suspect he killed his father now. There'd never been much love between Ryger and Bron, not like what his younger brother Plytus enjoyed. Plytus and father were much the same person. Ryger was different from them. They did not understand him, nor did they try.

But he didn't mean for father to die. He could have stayed behind to explain, but it'd been easier to take what he needed and run. Ryger had always wanted to see the wide world. He did not ask for the responsibilities father would put to him.

In little enough time, the boat bumped up against the dock. Ryger picked up his meager possessions and fit them into place - faded backpack settled onto shoulders, metal jingling as his climbing and trapping gear shifted inside; his stained and patched bedroll, strapped atop the pack; the quiver sparse of arrows, hung across his chest. Last the longbow. The wood colored a deep red, like the embers of a dying fire. Uncle Seltin had given it to him as a gift on his fifteenth name day, saying it was of Elven make. Ryger severely doubted that, yet he loved it all the same. Maybe even more so.

The boat rocked alarmingly as he stepped up onto the deck, his longsword slapping against his thigh. Not his father's sword - that he'd left for Plytus. It was a serviceable weapon, and sharp, but he'd be just as happy if it never left the scabbard.

After weeks of constant movement, it took a second for him to acclimate to ground that did not move underfoot. The oarsman pushed off without a word.

Ryger regarded the town. "I'm here. Now what?"