“How much further?”
The question caught the captain by surprise, he wasn’t expecting to be talked to while he was looking through the spyglass at the horizon. And the question wasn’t exactly very loudly posed, drowned out by the sound of the captain’s cloak flapping about in the wind.
“Captain Salvacorvo?”
Salvacorvo lowered the spyglass and put it back on his belt, right next to the compass and bag of coins. He looked behind him, to the man who posed the question, the man in black, clothed in black and head covered in grizzled black hair, face lined with a thick black beard. Everything about him was black, all except his eyes, which were silver.
“A few hours, I’d say.” replied Salvacorvo, doing his best to bring order to his wind-harassed cloak, but letting the tasseled scarf and wavy brown hair fly free, “Are you impatient?”
“My business in Vyshtorg is urgent.” said the man in black. Salvacorvo walked toward and then past him, moving to the helm. He took hold of the wheel and adjusted the course but a degree. He manipulated the wheel like the expert he was, his fingers callous from decades of the wheel rubbing against them. He felt at ease behind the wheel, like it was where he belonged. Not to say it was the only place he belonged, for Salvacorvo belonged in many places.
In his leisure time, he belonged in the most elaborate ballrooms in Vyshtorg, drinking the finest wines and admiring the most beautiful flowers that could be imported from Chaladon. But when on duty, he belonged wherever he needed to. If he was to escort a convoy of ships, at their side was where he and his ship would belong. And if he was to eliminate an Arashi raiding party, he’d belong wherever they were, and defeat anyone who would stop him.
“What kind of business do you have?” Salvacorvo asked the black-clad man. The man did not notice, as he was currently looking down at his pocket watch when being asked. “Excuse me… you.” Salvacorvo tried to get his attention. Eventually the man looked up.
“What is it?” he growled in the manner he could never help but doing.
“You haven’t told me your name, thus far. What is it?” The man looked pensive for a moment, as if contemplating whether or not to tell him. This pause was enough to make Salvacorvo suspicious.
“Aleksandr, I’m Aleksandr.” revealed the man in black. Salvacorvo’s eyebrows lifted as he made a non-audible sound of realisation.
“Aleksandr Skotina?” he said.
“You’ve heard of me?”
“Yes…” said Salvacorvo, rifling through what memories he had of Vyshtorg’s Guildhall meetings and passing whispers by Merchants, “...Yes, I’ve heard your name before, but not as much as your other name.” Aleksandr’s face tightened and his eyes widened and intensified in their presence. He remained silent. “What was ‘The Black Bear’ doing in Mole?”
Aleksandr noticeably twitched upon hearing his nickname, the nickname he hated, but could never escape from. Running his fingers through his matted hair, he took a few steps over to the side of the ship and looked over into the distance. “Other urgent business.”
“Whatever you say,” said Salvacorvo, “it’s your own business, after all. But it’s funny, now that I look at you, how could I ever have thought you were anyone other than the Black Bear?”
“I hate that name.” the Black Bear barked.
“I apologise, but I’m just saying… it’s an interesting one.”
“And you.” Aleksandr abruptly changed the topic of conversation, “I’ve heard of you many times in Vyshtorg’s Guildhall. They say you’re the best military captain in the Mercantile Guild.” Salvacorvo’s mouth curled into a muted smile. “The family I do business with, house Wymalot, say you’ve never lost a battle.”
“I wish that were true, believe me, but I don’t think a Yeshan general or Anglean hersir alive can claim that, we’ve all lost battles.” Aleksandr nodded as Salvacorvo said this. He knew well how it felt to lose a battle, no matter how small. Salvacorvo had lost a few battles in the sky, while Aleksandr’s past was fraught with little everyday battles, lost battles.
“One time, for example…” Salvacorvo said, smiling as if it was a humorous memory, “I was on the tail of an Arashi raiding party, just west of Isago.”
“They were probably part of Kamakhe tribe, if they were from that region.” Aleksandr’s interjection caught Salvacorvo off guard.
“How much do you know about Arashi?”
“Not much, but that includes the habits of a few of their nomadic tribes.”
“Right… Anyway. I was on their tail, following them as fast as I could. When we got out of the hills of Isago and into the open desert. I ordered for my gunners to fire an Artemis barrage to slow them down. It worked, they became sitting ducks. I told the other ships to advance and finish them off at close range, but then… I realised, too late, that I’d fallen into a trap. Arashi ships, ‘Kamakhe ships’ as you think, rose up out of the canyons and surrounded what ships I’d sent in. They were annihilated.” As he recalls this detail, Salvacorvo’s smile vanishes.
“But you escaped?” said Aleksandr.
“Yes, along with three of my ships, I suppose we were lucky they didn’t pursue us.”
“You are, Arashi seldom have mercy.”
“But it did teach me a valuable lesson,” Salvacorvo exclaimed, raising a finger, “Since that day, I have never underestimated an enemy. When you enter a state of war, assume they have an ace up their sleeves.”
“I know that all too well.” Aleksandr said. Salvacorvo eyed Aleksandr carefully.
“Do you have an ace?” he asked, to which Aleksandr chuckled and looked at Salvacorvo, silver eyes shining slightly in sun’s rays.
“No, I am an ace…” he purred. Salvacorvo did not respond to this, but took hold of the wheel again and adjusted the course by another degree.
Salvacorvo kept his promise, and a few hours later the ship was docked in Vyshtorg. Aleksandr did not stick around, darting off, leaving Salvacorvo alone with his small crew, all of whom eventually left in search of a tavern. Salvacorvo stayed, however, on his ship. He had no yearning for the stress of Vyshtorg on this day. The meetings and balls were all well and good, but sometimes Salvacorvo liked nothing but to just sit aboard his ship and feel the winds of the Vastness.
On some days he would sit there into the night, but this day he spent in Vyshtorg. He himself had business to attend to, meetings with various Merchants, important family members of several houses. But that evening he did return to the ship, mainly because he forgot something there. He walked up the gangplank, but was met by a shadow lurking on board, one which growled.
“Salvacorvo.” it growled. In the darkness of the night, Aleksandr was almost invisible, but Salvacorvo recognised his voice.
“Aleksandr? What are you doing here?”
“You… you can’t do what you’re about to do, Salvacorvo.” Aleksandr sat back in the chair, silhouetted in the night. Salvacorvo’s hand found itself running along his belt, looking for what wasn’t there. He never carried a gun, but now he felt he needed one.
“What I’m doing?”
“But you’re far too steadfast to give in to intimidation. I can’t intimidate the greatest military captain in the Mercantile Guild.” Salvacorvo stopped looking for the weapon that wasn’t there. He held his head high and made his back straight.
“So what are you going to do?”
The shadow on the chair stood up and took a single step forward. Then it growled and barked and the great shadow of the Black Bear devoured the straight-backed Merchant captain.
