The Unseen Hand

Ch 28: Whisperers

Mir'kadi, Eighteenth of Sund'im, 445 A'A'diel

Rime thickened along the Swoughünd's hull until she began to list sideways. The cries of her captain pierced the morning fog, sending sailors scampering into the frozen harbor. They descended along the docks with pickaxes and clubs, ready to break the ship free of the ice.

Ice floes the size of barges had washed down from upriver into the channel, where they buckled upon each other and blocked access to the sea. From somewhere in the fog, Gøran heard the sound of cracking wood. Eight carracks loaded with lumber, precious furs and ore had fallen prey to the ice. If he didn't act quickly, the ships would be crushed.

"Ring the bell, or we'll lose the fleet!" Gøran yelled.

A ruddy-cheeked urchin bolted up the snowdrifts, falling several times before reaching the lookouts' hill. "Ring the bell!" he cried. "Ring the bell!"

Over the roar of splintering wood, groaning ice and the cries of men a bell began to toll. It rang twice, paused, then rang twice again. The pattern repeated, piercing the mist that enveloped the Thrommish city of Thyra. A quarter-hour passed before the first peasants armed with clubs ambled down to the docks.

"Fight the ice!" Gøran yelled, running alongside his men.

Armed with a hammer, the sea captain joined the fray. He had planned to sail to the southern port of Carr at week's end. No one could have anticipated a deep freeze for at least another month.

More and more people poured onto the docks until the sound of breaking ice became a roar. Somewhere, the ice cracked, followed by screams as half-frozen men fell into the frigid waters. Gøran cursed his luck, beating the side of the ship with renewed vigor.

The sun rose to the cries and songs of tired men. The first ship to escape her icy prison was the Erika. Her hull bobbed up and righted. The force snapped her mizzenmast in two. The mast swung, suspended by ropes, then crashed to the quarterdeck. The sound of splintering wood ground against Gøran's ears. It was a nightmarish, dreaded sound.

The cold seeped under the hides, invading every pocket of warmth. Beneath Gøran's mittens, the skin of his hands was reddened and cracked. Gøran worked alongside his men until his vision grew bleary and his limbs shook. It was past midday before the temperature rose high enough to dislodge the ice. Only then did Gøran seek the refuge of his cabin.

Under the pile of furs strewn upon Gøran's bed, someone stirred.

Gøran closed the cabin door behind him. "You do not fear being crushed by the frost gods, do you?"

"Gods do not write men's destinies," a female voice replied.

"But women certainly do," said Gøran, his mood growing lighter.

A woman twenty years Gøran's junior, with green eyes and olive skin, surfaced bare-breasted from beneath the covers. "Come, find your warmth between my thighs," she crooned, pulling the covers aside.

The myriad of wrinkles on Gøran's face crinkled as he smiled, feasting on the goosebumps that raced across Vira's naked body. The petite Calantian girl had inspired more joy in the last three months than all of his wives combined. The Bissatiel man shrugged off his cloak and kicked off his boots. The girl licked her lips suggestively while her lover peeled his tunic from his chest.

Gøran dropped his shirt on the floor and unbuckled his breeches. In two steps, he crossed his cabin to the foot of the bed. He threw the covers over his head and crawled beneath them. The squeals of the woman filled the room as he closed his cold-chapped hands around her ankles. Gøran pulled her down and was about to pry her legs apart when he was interrupted by a heavy knock at his door.