13: Voyages and Framings

Sir Bruce of Wellington rose early the next morning. The sailor's warning's had not fazed him a bit and he had slept well. "'Tis a grand day for sailing." he said to himself, squinting in the bright morning sun coming through the window and pulling a light coat of chain mail, something he only took off when he slept, over his head. "Yes, what better day to start an quest so noble, so upright and so selfless as the search for the Golden Isle." He headed downstairs, grabbing and quickly consuming a bowl of hot porridge. "Do pass the compliments of Sir Bruce of Wellington, Knight of Nuvanderim in the Desert of Dreams, subject of his honor King Horatio, bearer of the red--"
"Yeah, yeah," the young inn-servant he had been speaking to cut him off, "whom should I pass the compliment to."
"The inn-keeper of course," Bruce replied, "He has a fine business here. Farewell young lass." He walked over to the stables, mounted his horse, and galloped into the streets. "Now to the docks," he thought. Even though Bruce was not always the most intelligent knight (he preferred to rely on his strength in most situations anyways), he did possess a very keen sense of direction. Summoning this instinct, he judged the sea to be, more or less, to his left, and rode in that direction accordingly. His guess proved to be correct, and, after a bit of asking around, he was soon speaking with a man called Gottfried. As it turned out, Gottfried had fallen upon hard times. For years, he had been known as one of the most skilled, and cunning mariners in the sea, but several storms, a shipwreck, and a mysterious encounter to the North had ruined his reputation and cost him all but his first ship, the Fair Gwenllian, and his fiercely loyal first mate, Puck. It was clear that Gottfried was a desperate man, and, lucky for Bruce, a bit superstitious after his most recent voyage to the North. "You realize, good sir," Gottfried said, "that few, if any, sailors give any credence whatsoever to the stories of old Ralph and Dekel."
"Be that as it may," Bruce replied, "I have faith in the man. Ralph, that is. Dekel may have imagined a spirit in his mind, but no one sees a island unless it is really there."
"Do not dismiss such spirit stories so lightly," said Gottfried, "There is something very different about those northern waters. Enough of this, though, you say you are willing to finance a voyage east, into open and uncharted seas, in search of the Golden Isle?"
"That is my proposal indeed," came the knight's reply, "I have nearly one hundred crowns with which to purchase the necessary supplies, as well as a guaranteed ten acres of land and two-hundred crowns to every sailor upon successful completion of the journey."
Gottfried stroked his short beard thoughtfully and gave Bruce a hard look. "A generous offer, o knight. May I assume that the captain of such a voyage will be further rewarded?"
"Why of course, of course!" Bruce exclaimed, "A ship of your choice and command of the entire Desert of Dreams navy should I go on to succeed Horatio as king. Which," he added, "I almost certainly will. What say you man?"
Gottfried paused for a moment, then spoke, "I must admit, Sir Bruce, that there is little left for this captain to live for, it will take nothing short of a miracle to regain what I've lost. I have become very desperate man." He paused again, the smiled recklessly and grasped Bruce's gauntleted hand, "And you have just won this desperate man over. Puck, oversee Gwenllian's resupply and find me a crew, keep the, er, details of our trip as vague as possible, but tell them of Sir Bruce's offer, we sail at dawn tomorrow."
"Aye sir!" Puck threw a quick salute and scurried off towards the more crowed area of the port. Gottfried turned and motioned for Bruce to follow him, "As for us, knight, I think we'd best have a chat with old Ralph."



Barely a blade of grass rustled underfoot as a hooded figure made his way through the sparsely wooded foothills south of Nuvanderim. Following a faint path that only a handful of men knew of, he glanced furtively in every direction for anything suspicious. Nothing. Up above, a lone hawk circled in the sky. To his right, a cow grazed on the grass, green after the recent rain. Good. The cloaked man jumped over a small stream, stopped at the first oak tree he came to, turned to his right, and walked thirty three paces. He stopped by a small boulder and tapped it deliberately three times. Without warning, an arrow fletched with rooster feathers thudded into the ground less than an arm-span away. "Identify youself," a commanding voice came out of nowhere. The man relaxed and removed his hood, "Fear not, for is I: Maximiliano, of ze brotherhood." The voice suddenly became lighthearted, "Maximiliano, you old scoundrel, here to see Ze Cock himself, no?"
"Of course," he responded, all business, "is very important, now shut up and let me enter." In a motion that would have startled most men, the boulder that Maximiliano had tapped suddenly rolled several feet in one direction, exposing a roughly hewn tunnel and complex system of ropes and pulleys that attached to the boulder. Wordlessly, he nodded to the sentry operating the pulleys, grabbed a lit torch, and headed down the tunnel. Hahn Nacosto, as it was known to the few who knew of it's existence, was the hideaway of none other than The Cock himself: expert thief and now leader of his own band of men. Though located outdoors in a small, isolated valley, the only access to the place came through a long, twisting tunnel. One so long and confusing, in fact, that it was virtually impossible for a person to maintain any sense of direction whatsoever. Therefore, when someone arrived at Hahn Nacosto he would have essentially no geographical idea where he was. Not so with Maximiliano; he, as one of The Cock's most trusted agents, was one of the few that had actually worked on the construction of the tunnel, but that is a different story. After more than fifteen minutes of following the lengthy corridor, he exited in the tunnel, squinting despite the fact that the sun had started to disappear over the valley's ridge. He walked swiftly past archery ranges, gardens, chicken coops, and sparring men. Coming to large tree, he grabbed a rope, whistled shrilly, and was whisked up into the foliage. In the trees, Maximiliano walked crossed several catwalks and came to a small tree-house. A voice came from inside, "Maxi, old friend, come in, come in." he did accordingly, and there, lounging in a hammock and twirling a small dagger in his had, was The Cock. The room was sparse, occupied only by an old map on the wall, several candles, a bow and quiver, and a bag of rooster feathers. "Vat news of King Horatio the Fool?" The Cock himself was fairly nondescript. He was a bit taller than most men, and somewhat skinny; his shoulder-length black hair was brushed back, and small goatee surrounded his mouth; his eyes were dark and piercing, and Maximiliano knew from experience that he missed very little. "Horatio?" Maximiliano responded, "Not much, he is little concern at ze moment, but--"
"He is king," The Cock interrupted, "He is always of our concern. Still, continue."
"Of course Cock." Not even Maximiliano knew The Cock's real name. He continued, "I'm afraid you are being framed."
"Framed?" The Cock sat up and leaned forward, "How so."
"A house in Nuvanderim burned down not long ago. Ze arsonist left feathers from a cock on ze grounds. Ze house belonged to old man, uh, Methuselah, ze called him."
"Attacking old men?" The Cock said angrily, "Plundering ze weak?!?! Zat is not my style, zat is not vat I do, vat I stand for! Zis person must be found and," he paused, an wicked smile forming on his lips, "confronted!"
"Zer is more," Maximiliano offered, "Ze morning after, a man was seen searching ze remains. Sir Edvard, zey call him."
"Sir Edvard," The Cock mused, "Ze knight of ze Peacock, if I am no' mistaken. Perhaps it is time ve pay zis, Sir Edvard, a visit, eh Maxi?"
Maximiliano smiled as he caught the look in his leader's eye, "Yes, is time indeed."

--Andrew C