The Fate of Alisan
By James D. Swinney
There was an odd smell that hung in the bar that evening, like every evening. A mixture of dozens of different drinks, smoke from the fire pit, food of every sort, possibly even a bit of vomit and blood here and there. It was unlike anything John Alver had ever smelled anywhere else. But it seemed to always be there. It was comforting, in a way, to know that he could always count on that unique scent to be there to welcome him home to the tavern. In fact, that night it was the only thing keeping him from a total breakdown.
The taproom was filled as full as it could be, every chair occupied, every booth crammed in with as many people as possible. It seems many had had the same idea as he’d had, to escape the oncoming chill of autumn over a warm pint and some hot food. Old Garin, the barkeeper, was not one to let such a plan go unfinished, and so the aging man huffed his way about the bar, delivering food and taking his dues as he had so many other days.
John had purchased a bowl of thick, meaty stew for himself, one that gave off a fine odour that filled the nostrils and left the mouth watering. He’d taken several bites, but for the most part left the steaming dish untouched. It was enough to sate his meagre appetite, anyway, though he didn’t have much of one these days. Still, the steam it gave off warmed his face and that was pleasant enough.
The familiarity of it all was like a rock in the turbulent, rushing river that his life had recently turned into. As long as he could remember, this bar had been there for him, and now was no different. His wife could die; his children could abandon him and leave him broken and crying in the gutter. At least the Trickling Tap was still open and waiting for him to come and buy a drink.
Hearing a scuffle behind him, John quickly turned around to see two young, strong lads baring their arms and muttering cold words to each other. Both had pushed away their chairs, both had anger written plainly on their faces, and neither looked ready to back down first. Who would throw the first blow, well, that remained to be seen. All John knew was that two ox-headed lads were angrier than a poked bear, and he knew that there was some welcome distraction to come.
“I’m gonna get you for what you said, Arran,” the taller, if not as attractive of the pair said loudly. His face was filled with resentment for this man who John assumed had been his best friend mere moments ago. “You don’t never talk that way about my mum, no matter what!”
“You back the hell off, Beddir,” the other replied, a handsome lad barely out of his teens, by the look of him. His face hadn’t a scar on it, his unbroken nose a rarity in this bar of fighters and sailors. Though he had a lithe, graceful figure about him, John doubted that he could hold his own against the muscled brute that was his friend. It would be an interesting fight. “I can say what I want, and I don’t have to ask a lumbering moron like you.”
“Moron?” the man called Beddir said, but he did not wait to let his friend explain it any further. He thrust a meaty fist in front of him, in a direct line to Arran’s pretty face. John felt sure that it would connect, breaking that perfect little nose, but Arran was quicker than expected. The thin figure carefully dodged the blow, ducking his head briefly to the side before returning with a quick counterstroke, a slap to Beddir’s cheek. His hand met his friend’s face in a sharp crack, sending Beddir reeling.
The fight went quickly after that point. Beddir attempted to fight like the lumbering moron Arran had called him, throwing punch after failed punch, never actually so much as striking the other man. Meanwhile Arran leapt in at every failed attempt, smacking his friend so hard across the cheek that they were both red after a matter of seconds. It was rather funny, really, until the doors swung open and the whole scene was interrupted.
There, standing silhouetted against the darkness of the doorway was a man of shadows. John could make out no details of the man. His clothing was shrouded in the dark, his face covered in a mask of blackness. It wasn’t until he stepped into the light of the barroom that John discovered that he still had no idea who this man was.
At first glance his clothing appeared rich, lavish beyond anything John could afford or ever dream of affording. His surcoat was of red silk, decorated with fine gold trappings and buttons. His shirt looked a bright white in the dimness of the bar, his tall hat of fine velvet resting softly on his head. His most interesting feature, however, was the sword that hung loosely at his side. It was a fine, thin rapier, encased in a scabbard inlaid with beautiful golden designs.
It was only after looking more carefully at him that John realized that this newcomer was soaked to the bone. Water visibly dripped off his clothing to pool around his feet on the floor. His sopping wet hair was pressed to his face, the feather in his hat hanging limply from it. The look of him drew the attentions of everyone in the bar all at once, bringing silence where moments ago there was the loud clatter of fighting.
“Someone get me a damn towel,” the man muttered, a look of obvious dissatisfaction touching his face in the form of a frown.
With that, the bar returned to normal. As Old Garin tossed the newcomer a large towel from one of the cupboards, the usual patrons went back to their regular routines: eating ‘til their bellies could hold no more and drinking ‘til they passed out, that is. Arran and Beddir returned to their seats, neither the worse from their little scuffle, but for a red cheek on the part of the latter. The rain-soaked guest caught the towel and began wiping himself off quickly, if none too effectively.
There was something about this man that caught and held John’s attention like an animal in a trap, unyielding and merciless. If one didn’t look too carefully at him, he seemed a wealthy ship captain who happened to have been caught in the rain. That was all. John, however, was certain that there was more to him than that. The anger that burned behind his eyes like a roaring fire was more than just that of a rich man caught in the rain. The lines of his face bespoke great knowledge, as well as a great familiarity with disappointment.
When he was dry as he could make himself, the mysterious man took the recently vacated spot at John’s side at the bar. Still frowning, he waved over Old Garin. “Can I get you a beer, friend?” the kindly bartender asked with a smile, wiping his hands on his somewhat stained apron.
“Some wine will do me fine,” the guest replied, not bothering to meet Old Garin’s eye. This was definitely a noble, or at least a very rich man, John decided. Nobody came into the Trickling Tap and demanded a drink like that, at least none familiar with the establishment. Old Garin was a friendly soul, not prone to anger or violence, but he was held in the highest respect by the locals, and they were none too friendly to those who insulted their friend.
Old Garin, however, merely nodded and scuffled off to get the drink. John took this time to casually examine the man in the fine, damp clothes. He didn’t discover anything more than before, that he was certainly a wealthy nobleman or ship-captain that’d been through some rough times. His curiosity was irrevocably piqued, though, and he couldn’t resist the temptation to get to know this fellow a little better, to find out the reasons for his anger. How he would go about doing so, though…
“You’re not from around here, are you, sir?” John asked, dismissing all the other ideas he’d had. This was the sort of question that wouldn’t frighten the other man off, hopefully, but also wouldn’t be too vague and lead him nowhere. It was a plan to be proud of, he decided.
“How could you tell?” the man responded, sarcasm touching his tone. His eyes bespoke obvious boredom apart from the anger, and John was left feeling mildly offended at the response.
“Well, first off I noticed that your clothes are nicer than anyone else’s in this whole bar,” John explained, ignoring the sarcasm. “Next I saw you ordering wine instead of beer. Not many do that around here. Then, after you spoke, I heard that you’ve not got the same sort of accent most of us have. Your words are clearer, more…uh…refined,” John said, hoping he used the proper words. He didn’t want to seem like some sort of idiot in front of this nobleman.
“You’re quite observant, then,” he said, though his compliment hid the apparent desire to end the conversation.
John’s curiosity was not satisfied, however, so he continued. “Might I ask you what your name is, sir? I can’t just keep on calling you sir.”
“You could,” he said, frustrated that John had missed his obvious signals. “I am Kalton Daetrus.”
“Well, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Kalton,” John said with a smile and a hand outstretched to shake.
Kalton tentatively took it, giving it a brief shake before letting it fall. “I would prefer if you did not call me that.”
“Should I call you Lord Daetrus, then?” John asked before barking a short laugh.
“That’d be better,” Kalton murmured, almost too low for John to hear. “Nevermind. Call me whatever you want.”
“Alright then, Kalton, would you mind telling me why you’re covered in water?” he asked, hoping he wasn’t overstepping his bounds. “I’m sure most of us here would be interested in knowing.”
At that point, Old Garin returned, setting the fragile glass on the bar-top. Kalton momentarily peered into the dark red liquid before, having apparently decided that it looked good enough for him, lifting it to his lips and taking a tiny sip. “I will tell you,” he conceded. “But I would as you your own name beforehand.”
“John Alver,” he said without a trace of hesitation. What could it hurt?
“Fine, John Alver, I am covered in water because I jumped off the deck of my ship and swam most of a mile to get here,” Kalton said bluntly.
It took a while for that to fully register with John. “You jumped off—?” he began, but confusion got the best of him and he fell into silence.
“Yes, I jumped from the deck of a ship. The same ship I’d been living on for three weeks, and now she’s probably resting at the bottom of the ocean because I had to jump!” Kalton said, his temper rising along with his voice as he recalled the events of that afternoon. “By Elrim, I should think that a man could muster enough courage to protect his friends! Not me, though. Not me.”
While this was apparently intended to clear things up, it only succeeded in raising more questions than it answered. “What the hell happened, then?” John asked, even more confused than before.
“To be honest with you, I’m not entirely sure,” Kalton admitted. “We were sailing to Rheun from Boligar when we were suddenly attacked by this…this…thing. It was just a huge disc, nothing I’ve ever heard of before now. I’d be less surprised had we been attacked by a fire-breathing sea lizard, or if the ship had been smashed to bits by an army of angry mer-folk. As it is, well, I just don’t know what to think….”
“From Rheun to Boligar?” John asked, surprised. “Then Nabur should be more than five hundred miles out of your way.”
“We were hit by storms on the way,” Kalton explained. “That’s what you took from that? I’d think you might be more interested by the giant fucking disc that attacked my ship!”
“Right, right,” John muttered, just now realizing the triviality of his question in comparison to the other news. “Tell me about that, then.”
“You’ve got a story to tell then, friend?” Old Garin asked upon hearing this. “I’m sure we’d all be more than grateful if you’d share it with the lot of us. We don’t get too many storytellers through these parts, but we’re always looking for some entertainment.”
“I’m not too comfortable—” Kalton began to protest, but Old Garin cut him off.
“Oh, go on and tell it!” the old barkeeper persisted. “It can’t be too secret that you can’t tell a room full of total strangers. You won’t see any of us again, so we can’t be of harm to you.” He leaned in close to Kalton then, nudging him with an elbow. “Besides, if you’ll tell it, I’ll give you your drink for free, and as many more as you’ll need during the telling.”
“Fine, fine, I’ll share it!” Kalton finally conceded. The anger was gone from his eyes, replaced with sudden amusement at the persistence of the old barman. “I’m expecting quick service, though, and you better not let any of these folk interrupt me. If I’m telling a story, I’m telling it properly.”
With that, the damp man stood. “Where do you want me to tell it from?” he asked. Old Garin, his face split by an excited grin, pointed off to the front of the room where there was an upraised stage for storytellers and musicians to be heard from. Then the aging man thought better of it and decided to lead the way himself, scuffling out from behind the bar and out across the room. When he arrived at the stage, with Kalton following right behind, he called out for the room to be silent, which they soon did.
“Now, then, we’ve got some special entertainment tonight,” Old Garin announced from the stage to the room of patient, quiet onlookers. “This man here… What’s your name, sir?” He asked this last of Kalton. When he got his answer, he continued. “This man Kalton has decided, from the goodness of his own heart, to share a story of his with the lot of you. Now, he don’t want any of you interrupting during the story, so get your drinks now and keep quiet!”
With that, Old Garin shuffled away, leaving Kalton to fend for himself onstage. He sat down on a tall wooden stool facing his audience and getting ready to share. He did not often tell stories; typically he would have left that for the bards and poets. Tonight was special, though, as none could tell this tale quite like he could, this tale of tragedy and mystery.
He cleared his throat in a loud and exaggerated gesture, and the noise rippled throughout the otherwise silent room. “I’m not much of a storyteller,” he began modestly. “I’m no bard, no troubadour to tell you grand tales of Falmarrin the Fearless or Empress Almaya. I do, however, have one special story to tell you folk. Though you may not believe me upon hearing it, what I am about to tell you is the whole, unadulterated truth of what went on in the sea just miles off the coast from here. Believe me when I say that you may not like what I have to tell you, but I am not the sort to lie about this kind of thing.
“Now, friends, I will tell you the story of the fate of the ship Alisan.”
“Elrim’s ass, this wind,” I muttered as I went about my business on the deck of my own ship, cursing as I slipped on a wet patch in the wood, barely managing to catch myself on the railing. My cloak flapped about endlessly, to my equally endless annoyance. The breeze that howled all about carried on its icy wings little specks of frozen water, which seemed almost to be aiming for the unprotected parts of my body. This, to the detriment of my fellows, did nothing to bolster my already worn enthusiasm for the voyage.
Only six short days to Rheun. That is what I had been telling myself for the past three weeks since we’d started. That whole sixth day after setting out from Boligar had been spent leaning over the side of the rail, searching desperately for some sign of land, some signal of an opportunity to get off this hellish vessel. Unfortunately, that had been a day wasted, as so many of the others to follow it would prove to be. Though our spirits sunk lower each day, the waves that beat the ship only seemed to be growing higher. Needless to say, it was not a happy time for me, or for anyone else onboard.
Crewmen ran to and fro about the deck, going about their business and ignoring me as best they could. These were gruff fellows, as sailors are wont to be, though these were somewhat rougher after the delays. They fidgeted with ropes and knots, toying with the sails that blew loudly in the wind. Having been raised miles from the sea, I knew little about the ocean and less about ships, though I at least could tell that they were trying to use this new wind to take us out further in the direction I had assumed was east, though I really didn’t know.
With that realization, I found myself searching the sky for some indication as to our direction, or even the time. It was dark, but that could as easily be attributed to the clouds that hung dark and swollen in the sky as to the setting of the sun. To my untrained eye, it looked as if a storm was coming. Or rather, a storm had already gathered above us, but was waiting for the appropriate time to release its torrents of icy water onto the ill-tempered sailors.
I cursed again at the thought of spending another evening cooped up in his cell of a cabin. It was like a tiny wooden prison in there, with nothing to sleep in but a ragged, threadbare hammock, nothing to sit on but a less-than sturdy wooden chair. Other than those, the room was essentially empty, but for the dust. I spent as little time in there as humanly possible, only suffering through it when it was time for sleep, which I did little enough of. Some nights I preferred to walk the deck in the dark, looking out over the endless sea and pondering the vastness of it.
“Outta the way,” a crewman muttered as he went by, though his words seemed an unnecessary courtesy after he shoved me roughly out of the way. Having been roughed up enough already to learn to stay out of the way, I merely gripped the railing and bit my tongue. There were more out now, apparently preparing for the inevitable storm. Realizing that it wouldn’t be long until they sent me inside anyway, I began a dejected walk back to my cabin, though I almost would have preferred the rain to hours of boredom and sleep.
Feeling the first droplets of the chill rain, I pulled my cloak tighter around myself. I looked out to the sea as I walked, the sea that churned with the force of powerful winds, sending waves crashing against the side of the ship and soaking its deck with salty water. The men were shouting now, and I saw one man pointing an outstretched arm into the blackening sky.
Then, just as I was arriving at the door, hell broke loose.
The rain began to fall in devilishly cold torrents, soaking right through my cloak and clothes and leaving me shivering involuntarily. Lightning arched through the air, striking the water outside of his view. Thunder rippled all around him, filling the world with its unholy sound. However, the storm seemed nothing compared to what hung now in the sky.
At first all I could make out was a faint blue glow against the black. It seemed unimportant, like it was merely a break in the cloud for the moon to peek through. However, on closer examination I realized that this was no natural blue. It was bluer than anything I’d ever seen. Its perfect sheen could make the grandest of all sapphires envious. It was a deeper blue than the sea at midnight, yet brighter than the noonday sky. It was haunting, and it drew my attention like a lamp would a moth’s.
If I had bothered to check, I likely would have seen that the rest of the crew was also openly gaping at this phenomenon that was occurring right above our heads. Even the captain, who mere moments before had been on the verge of beating his men he was so angry, now stared silently at its perfection and mystery. For the space of three interminable heartbeats, everything seemed still. The rain stopped falling, the waves stopped thrashing, the thunder ceased its fearless roar. Everything was focused on that one hole in the sky.
It was growing larger, growing closer until it consumed the world all around them and there was nothing else for us to see. Not that we were looking, though. As it descended towards them, infinitely, impossibly slow, I began making out details. Lights shined about the thing, which appeared to be a massive, floating disc. Everything about it screamed its impossibility to me, but I did not hear the signs. My ears were filled with the melodic sounds of it as it neared me.
The whole ship was bathed in blue by this point, and we were revelling in it. We washed ourselves in that beautiful light, cleaning our as yet always-filthy bodies. It felt as though we were stripping off an old skin, taking off an old pair off clothes that didn’t fit quite right, until we were perfect and comfortable in the blueness of it all.
That is why no one was surprised when we began to hear voices. They were enchanting at first, though the words seemed gargled and nonsensical. The tongue was musical, lilting, like a lullaby. These words meant more than regular words, like they were real, physical beings occupying the same space as the men. For a moment, I felt certain that he could reach out and grab one of those words, if only I were to try…
Then something came out of the disc. A ramp extended from the ethereal blueness of it, coming from nowhere to land upon the deck of the ship. Those standing nearest to it backed off just a bit to give it room. We all stood entranced by the light, gazing up into the blue and standing mystified as the most beautiful creatures I have ever seen began walking down the ramp.
They could almost be humans, if one saw them out of the corner of their eye quickly and didn’t think to check again. Their bodies were of essentially the same build: two legs, two arms, and a head. It was their faces, though, that revealed them as foreigners in our world. They were, for the most part, indistinct in the darkness and the blue. Not one of them had a proper nose, having only two nostrils cut directly into the space above their impossibly small lips. In fact, everything about those faces seemed too small.
Except for the eyes. Those eyes were perfect. Deep pools of blue, lush forests of green, even raging fires of red; they came in every colour imaginable. They sparkled even in the darkness of the storm, and they seemed too knowledgeable for the otherwise childlike figures, like they knew and saw everything that went on around them. One could get lost inside those deep, emotion-filled eyes.
When they opened their mouths, more of those incorporeal words filled the air around us, floating off their tongues like little beings on a mission. Unfortunately, they fell upon unknowing ears, and their message was lost. Still, they came out musically, the mixture of them like a beautiful harmony. It was all I could do not to break into dance, to leap forth and kiss one of those beauteous creatures right then and there, they were so mystifying.
They moved gracefully about the deck when they arrived at the bottom, moving lithely throughout the lot of us mere humans until they found the captain. When one of them stopped beside me and gave me a quick examination, it felt like the little lady—in truth, I had no idea as to their genders, but in my mind I see them as women—was looking directly through me and into my heart. It was the happiest moment of my life.
Soon, one of the glowing creatures found itself standing before the captain, a tall and altogether ugly man called Jeboan. Though it was just less than half his size, it seemed as if it were meeting his gaze levelly. Then, when it opened its lips, four simple words spilled from them in the common tongue.
“You are the leader.”
It seemed almost wrong for it to be speaking our vulgar, crude language after that birdsong of a tongue they had spoken before. It was a travesty, but it was done.
“Yes…I am…” Jeboan replied slowly, fumbling over his own tongue as he spoke. I can only imagine the struggle that that was, conversing with one of them. What does one say to such perfection?
“You can take us where we must go,” it said, a statement rather than a question. It seemed that this one was not accustomed to people disobeying.
Not that Jeboan, or any of us for that matter, were going to disobey. “I will try,” the captain replied. “Where should I take you?”
“There is a tower. We are expected there soon by the men of light.”
A flicker of worry crossed Jeboan’s ugly face. “The Tower of Light?” he asked, his voice cracking with sudden fear. “That is thousands of leagues from here, and I do not know where exactly we are.”
“Then you cannot take us,” it said, it’s tiny lips curling into a frown. That frown bespoke so much disappointment, so much sadness, that it nearly brought me to weeping. It seemed that a great tragedy must have occurred to bring a frown to that perfect face.
“I—” Jeboan began.
“You cannot take us,” it repeated, cutting him off. “This is sad. We will find another way.” With that, it climbed up onto the tips of its toes and leaned in to give Jeboan a kiss on both cheeks, then on the lips. “I thank you for your offer,” it told him, coming back down to its feet.
For a moment I was filled with more envy than I’ve ever felt before or will likely ever feel after. Why the hell was Jeboan, that ugly bastard, getting a kiss when I was not? What had he done to deserve it? I felt rage welling up inside me like a fire that had just been fed fresh wood.
This rage soon faded, however, when Jeboan fell limply to his knees, then to the deck, his life quenched so suddenly. He did not scream, he did not fight back. He merely gave in to the venomous kiss.
Terror filled me then, where once there was hatred. I’m certain that it was the same for all the others, too. I saw one of the other creatures moving towards me, pursing its lips like it were about to give me that same kiss of death that had sucked the life out of Jeboan in half an instant. Try as I might, though, I could not bring myself to resist it!
Then a gunshot rang out in the silence, breaking that spell that had fallen over us. We all found ourselves looking to where the noise had come from, only to find blue blood leaking from the lifeless body of one of the foreign creatures to stain the deck of the ship. Standing over the corpse and holding a smoking musket in her hands was Ethanna Baowin, the only female onboard Alisan. It seems she had not been affected by the creatures’ charms.
“What the hell are you standing around for?” she shouted out to us. “Kill the little whores!” Then she drew her cutlass, lifting it from its plain scabbard and slicing the throat of one of the little creatures in one fluid motion.
Then chaos came about the ship. The eyes of the creatures filled with unadulterated rage as they leapt towards us, using their clawed hands to scratch us and their sharp fangs to gnaw on our limbs. I saw several of the other crewmen going down, screaming under the ferocious creatures that now tore them to shreds when moments ago they had seemed perfectly harmless. Quick as I could I drew my sword, stabbing one in the belly as it leapt toward me. Pulling a pistol from my side, I took quick aim and fired, forcefully removing the head of another as it launched toward Ethanna.
As we fought the creatures, more and more of them poured from the disc and ramp that still floated above us and connected our ship to theirs. We were impossibly outnumbered and, though we had the better weapons, probably outmatched as well. For every one of them that we killed, two of us went down. I fought off as many as I could, cutting throats and hacking limbs, but there were just so many.
The battle only turned for the worse when fire started hailing down on us from above. Hatches opened up on the disc, showing cannons that then fired a hail of liquid fire at us. It burned through the wood of the ship, taking chunks off of the deck and quickly demolishing Alisan. I myself barely managed to avoid being burned to a crisp under the focus of one of those pillars of fire, but not everyone was so lucky as I.
As the battle lit up the night with its light, I thought that I could seem mountains off in the distance. Land! That meant farms, cities, people who were blissfully unaware of the demons that beset us there at sea. It seemed so close, too, so untouchably close to the besieged ship.
The first sparks of a plan began to flicker in my mind. Really, the land was not too far off from Alisan. If I could just get off of the ship and into the water, it was possible that I could make my way to safety on the land. It seemed insane, as it was not truly possible to determine exactly how far I was from the shore, but it was the only plan available to me.
When I saw Ethanna go down, I knew that I had to leave, or I was definitely going to die. The deck was flooded with the monstrous little creatures, and they were quickly overrunning all those humans who yet survived. Without even a trace of hesitation, I leapt over the side of the ship to escape the carnage. There I was met with the icy waters of the sea in autumn, soaking me to the bone. At least I was alive, though.
It was then that I remembered that I didn’t know how to swim. I didn’t grow up by the sea, so it had never seemed something important to learn. Now, though, my life depended on it. Behind me, the ship was still exploding into bursts of splinters that broke off and fell into the sea. It seemed there was death wherever I turned.
Then, I suppose, was as good a time as any to start dogpaddling.