Chapter 12 – Back to Saladin
It was nearly two weeks later that the Braydon was in sight of Saladin. It had been over two months since they were here last, the sight of a familiar place made Nev and Brey feel better. "It seemed back on Kulu that we would never see this place again; even though we were only here a half day, this place makes me feel like coming home, if you know what I mean." said Nev.
"I know just what you mean, Nev." replied his chum with a smile.
The port was less crowded than the last time they had dropped anchor here; the only ships in the harbor were two large traders, a Navy corvette, and a ship of the line similar to the Roland, she bore the name Queen Arriana.
As soon as they had secured the ship, they lowered the dinghy over the side, the same boat they used to escape the pirates and land on Kulu. Nev, Brey, Greer and two of the Navy hands rowed to the main pier and went to the Harbormaster's shack.
"Seems to me I have seen that ship before." the heavyset man said without preamble.
Greer spoke up first. "Ye have. We were in a couple months ago and lost our ship to raiders after setting sail. We were lucky enough to get her back."
The gruff Master raised his eyebrows then scowled. "Ye lost yer ship and then got her back? I am sure this must be a whopper of a story." He looked out to the Braydon anchored to one side of the pier. "Y'see, I've seen that schooner here in the last month or so, though she was flyin' Blunt's rag then. Now she seems to be flyin' a trader flag again; how do I know you ain't with Blunt, trying something funny here in Saladin?"
Greer quickly reached to stop Nev and Brey from drawing their swords. "Now, now, lads, that won't be needed. The good Master has a valid question here." He made a face at them clearly indicating they needed to stay in control. "Now, Harbormaster, when we was through here last, 'bout two months past, we had us a captain name of Report. You're known for having a good memory, do you recall him? Youngish fella, said he was making a passenger run back to Groden?"
The cranky official raised a plump hand to his chin and tilted his eyes toward the ceiling. "Seems to me I recall that; had a thin story, but nothing I could much call him on at the time. What about him?"
Brey, recalling the attack on the Braydon vividly, stepped forward and gripped the edge of the Harbormaster's table. "That blackheart, Blunt ran him through when we were attacked. That's what about him! Our whole crew, but us, was slaughtered and we only escaped because the captain ordered Greer and Mallen, our sail maker, to get me and Nev out of there!"
The young man had spoken more harshly than he had intended and felt badly for having done so. "I'm sorry for yelling at you, Master, but it makes my blood boil still." he added, stepping back from the desk.
"I can see that." he responded with raised eyebrows. "Though you seem a bit young for it, you should down a few tankards to help them nerves. Besides, if what you say is true, you all need to go toast your fallen anyway." He scribbled the ship's information in his log and looked back up at Greer. "How long ye be in port?"
"One, maybe two days I expect."
"A'right. Have you any coin for supplies?" he asked more quietly and in a less official tone.
Greer hadn't thought of that prior to this moment. He cleared his throat and looked over at the boys with an embarrassed expression. "Well, sir-"
"We have enough, Master. Thank you." said Nev. He turned to see the stout carpenter looking at him in surprise. "We never took our money from our packs, so Blunt didn't get it. I also still have my purse with me, so we should have enough for supplies anyway."
The Master barked a short laugh. "Didn't see that one coming did you Mister Greer? Must be nice to travel with men of means." The large man laughed again, his barrel chest shaking with mirth.
"All right, you're free to enter the port of Saladin, gents. Be sure to stop at the Skull to toast yer dead." The Harbormaster handed Greer a slip of paper and waved them out the door.
Once outside, the Navy sailors who had been waiting for them to conduct their business with the Harbormaster asked Greer if they could use the boat to go to the Arriana and report about their situation. "Fine, lads; will you be back by dusk so we can return to the Braydon 'fore dark?"
"Yes, sir." replied the young midshipman.
"Well, my young friends, it's off to the Skull for us." Greer announced grimly.
"What's the Skull?" asked Nev.
"It's a tavern, Nev. When a sailor is lost, you drink a toast to their spirits sailing the seas without need of an earthly ship any longer. It's a tradition, and in Saladin, it's the Skull where it's done."
"But we don't drink." responded Brey.
Greer suddenly swung about and glared at them. "You do today! I'll not have you disrespect the memories of Cap'n Report and our mates lost this trip by failing to honor them properly." He turned again and stalked off toward the west end of town.
He said nothing as he walked and kept a pace or two ahead of the young men until he arrived at a shabby-looking building with a grotesque skull painted on the sign above the door. He turned back and spoke again more softly this time. "I shouldn'a yelled at you as I did and I'm sorry for that. Sailors spend many months at sea and you build a strong bond with your mates. Now, sailors have some beliefs that are a bit different from those who stay to the land. True?" He grasped for a moment trying to find the right words. "When you lose a mate, it's believed that they continue to sail the seas they love. In order for us to send them off properly on that journey, we drink a measure of rum for them since they can't do it themselves. Rum is the tradition of sailors, and the mates we lost are entitled to their share. We are the only ones who can do this for them. Others may join in the toast, but it's our responsibility. D’you understand what I mean?"
The young men thought about the friends they had lost and nodded; they then followed the older man into the tavern and he led them to the bar. The bar itself was nothing more than a long wooden plank atop three barrels, one at either end and one in the middle. Greer banged loudly on the plank and yelled to the barkeeper. "Rum! A toast is required."
The room had been fairly loud when they had entered, a dozen conversations of varying volume happening at once; now the room fell completely silent. The barkeep stumped over, wiping his hands on a grimy apron. His gray hair had been crudely pulled back in a tail, accentuating his thin pockmarked face. "What crewman do you toast?" he growled.
"All hands but five of the Braydon, a proud two-master, lately captained by Martin Report of Groden." said the squat man loudly. "Fourteen souls in all, set to sail the mist."
The thin little barkeep stared at Greer for a moment; then without a word, he turned and grabbed a large jug and four cups and set them on the bar. He carefully poured an exact measure of rum into each cup. He set aside the jug and moved a cup in front of each, keeping one for himself. "My name is Kreyton and this first toast is mine t’give as I knew Report when he was still a hand. He was a good lad, I can't believe he wasn't a good captain." He lifted his cup high and called out, "Captain Report of the Braydon!"
A chorus of 'Here, here" replies sounded throughout the tavern. Everyone drained tankard and cup. Nev and Brey picked up their cups and sniffed the contents. The sharp smell of alcohol was more than even Nev was used to, as wine is not as strong as this dark liquid. "Drink up, lads." said Greer softly. "For the captain at least." They each tipped the cup and took a large swallow, choking on the fiery drink. After a few more coughs, they finished the cup.
Kreyton had been watching as they struggled to finish the first toast. "Not real good at that, are ye?"
"The first bit o’ rum to pass their lips, my friend. I think they are in for a short night." replied Greer with a slight chuckle.
Brey looked at Nev, feeling his face turning red from the effects of the alcohol. "I hope I can do this, Nev. I wouldn't want to disrespect our friends by getting sick, but rum is much stronger tha
n I expected." he said quietly, not wanting others to hear his concern. Fortunately, only Greer and Kreyton were close enough to hear. The barmaids were all busy serving rum and ale to the rest of the patrons.
"I have a thought." said the barman. He leaned over and whispered to Greer for a few moments; Greer looked at the man with a slightly surprised look on his face.
"Really?" asked Greer. The barkeep grinned and nodded. "Well, then I guess it's a'right." he grumbled.
Brey and Nev had been watching to see what was said. Clearly, it was something out of the ordinary and their friend deemed it to be somewhat distasteful.
The barman leaned over the bar toward them, his foul breath giving their stomachs a turn. "A little secret about your captain, lads. His first time toasting his mates in death was much like yours. Since he couldn't handle the rum well, he drank each toast with ale. No exactly as it should be, but there's no real disrespect in it since sailors are as fond of ale as they are of rum." he chuckled.
He drew two tankards of ale and placed them before the young men. "Be prepared to toast heartily, lads, you've many more to go."
Over the next three hours, each member of the crew of the Braydon was toasted solemnly by all. Brey and Nev made it through the first four or five without feeling anything more than a warm, slightly nauseated feeling in their stomachs. The warm feeling spread to their ears and soon their whole bodies felt kind of fuzzy and numb. By the time the last toast was drunk, five tankards apiece had been emptied and they both found themselves smiling foolishly and swaying as if they were on the swelling sea.
It was near dusk when Greer peered at them with bleary eyes. "Lads," he said with slurry speech, "iss time we're getting 'round to the suppliers an' back t' the ship." He lurched to Nev's side. "Nev, me boy. Dint you say you ha' some money? We're gonna need to pay good Kreyton and the water merchant."
Nev's head seemed to be stuffed with sand; it took a moment for the words to sink in. "Oh! O'course I do. I have lots; how much d'you need?" The young man could hear the words coming out in much the same way his mother used to sound when she was far gone to the drink. In the back of his mind, he thought he now understood why she drank so much. His mind was slow and he couldn't focus on anything for very long. This was how she had avoided facing the death of her husband and daughter for so long. Despite having gotten drunk honoring his mates, he still felt disappointed in himself.
Brey was not quite as far gone as Nev appeared to be and noticed several men turn and look in their direction as his friend exclaimed about having money. He told himself to pay attention as they left to be sure they weren't followed. Kreyton called them to the end of the bar nearest to door to settle up; three silvers and five coppers in all. The thin man warned them to be careful heading back and to be sure to stay in sight of the local militia as much as possible for he too had noted heads turning in their direction at Nev's boast.
They walked out onto the street and began walking toward the port area. The cool air helped the clear their heads a little bit. They passed several small vendors on the way; Brey paused by one of them pretending to be looking at the man's goods. He snuck a look back toward the Skull and noticed four men who had been sitting in the tavern walking slowly in the same direction as they. The men made a show of seeming nonchalant, but did so poorly; Brey was certain they were following them purposefully. He turned and caught up to his friends.
"I think some men from the tavern are following us." he said in a low voice.
Greer grunted and said, "Be surprised if they weren't after all that." His hand rested lightly on the pommel of his sword. "Should they try us, do your bes' t' keep by Nev's side, he's a bit wobbly jus' now." In truth, Nev was having some difficulty walking at all; he swerved and stumbled and seemed oblivious to his whereabouts.
They were now in sight of the shipyard and the vendors of provisions, yet still not so close as to make them feel entirely safe.
"Were I those fellas, I would be trying to take us here where there are enough shadows to keep them from easily bein' seen by the militiamen way down there."
As if he had given the men following them their cue, Brey heard footsteps running up behind them. His sword fairly leapt into his hand as he drew and turned in one motion. He stood ready before the pursuers were close enough to make their attack with full surprise. The squat woodworker grabbed Nev, pushed him toward the wall beside the thoroughfare, and drew his own blade.
"Hold there!" he boomed in his deep voice. "You'll find no easy pickings here, lads. I'll give you but one chance to turn and go."
"It's us four to your two." growled the wiry brigand. "We've no fear of an old man and a boy." He swung his blade menacingly in front of him but had not yet stepped forward to engage.
Greer lowered his blade slightly and laughed heartily. "It's a wonder you have lived so long, friend. You face a well-seasoned sailor and fighter as well as a sergeant of the Queen's Regiment. Look to the rank insignia at the young man's throat for yerself. I am sure you'll recognize the insignia of the Royal Guard."
The man paused in his sword wielding and looked to Brey's cloak clasp. His eyes widened momentarily as he saw the cluster of gold. His eyes slid to the side sizing up his men; clearly, he was trying to come to a decision. "I still see four to your two. I think we can manage."
Brey, feeling less inhibited than usual said, "It's your funeral, sir." He leapt forward and engaged the nearest man. Even though his reflexes were slowed by the effects of the ale, he was still much faster than the sailor was; it was only a moment before the man was disarmed. The dirty little man scrambled back quickly to hide behind the others.
The leader of the little band of would-be thieves stood gaping at Brey as the young man returned to his ready stance, prepared to do battle.
"I'd say you oughtta rethink your plan, friend. My young companion doesn't appear to be in as good a mood as I am and I wouldn't cross steel with him on a bet." He chuckled and took a casual step forward, closing on the wiry little man who had been doing all the talking. "Last chance." he said as he lifted his blade to a fighting position.
The whole group of brigands turned as one and ran back up the road. Greer laughed as they sprinted up the road. He turned to Brey and watched as the young man slid the blade home in his scabbard. "'It's your funeral?' When did you become so cheeky?"
Brey grinned foolishly. "I read it in a story once." He chuckled and added, "I'm just glad I didn't drop my sword. I feel a little wobbly."
Greer laughed loudly and turned to help Nev get up. The youth was out cold lying by the side of the road. "Looks as though Nev is not much of a drinkin' man; probably a good thing, that." He picked up the limp young man and slung him over his shoulder. "Let's get the supplies and head back to the ship for some shut-eye. Yes?"
They ordered their supplies and headed toward the pier without further incident. Brey had begun to feel a bit rubber-legged by the time they met the Navy sailors to row back to the boat. He stumbled once trying to climb down the ladder to the boat but made it without falling into the harbor. Nev was handed down from Greer to the sailors and laid in the bow of the boat, his cloak under his head.
"Will he be all right?" asked Brey, a little worried.
"He'll be fine, lad." Greer replied. "He'll have an awful headache in the morning. You will too, most likely. Drink some water before sleeping; that will help."
Brey lay down near is friend in the bow and was fast asleep shortly after they pushed off. He awoke when they arrived at the Braydon and climbed aboard and helped carry Nev to their berth where he once again dropped off.
He was awakened early in the morning to the sound of retching. Nev was in a corner of the room hugging a large wooden bucket tightly to him. He glanced over and saw by the lamp light that his friend was awake.
"I think I am dying." he rasped miserably. "I have never felt so horrible in all my life."
T
he smell in the room was powerful and made Brey's stomach turn, he too felt quite sick and moved quickly to the door. He ran up and out, just making it to the rail of the ship as the contents of his stomach erupted from his mouth. He retched several more times making him feel exhausted. He lifted his aching head and opened his eyes, noticing for the first time that they had left port. This was unusual, since ships seldom left port before the morning tide and it was still quite dark.
"If you're feeling that poorly, I imagine Nev is in a truly sorry state." said Mallen. He held out a cup that Brey took in his shaky hand. "Drink that and you will feel better in no time."
"What is it?" he croaked, peering into the tin cup.
"Weak tea with a lot of sugar. Trust me; even if the taste is unpleasant, you will feel much better for it. I have one for Nev too." The sail maker watched as the young man drained the cup with a grimace. The older man chuckled a bit. "I suggest you try to get a bit more sleep. Once you've gotten a bit closer to dawn, you will be good as new." He handed the other cup to Brey and sent him back to the cabin he and Nev shared with the rest of the crew.
It took several separate gulps for Nev to get the brew down, but was able to hold it once he did. He rose and took the bucket he had been using up to the deck and dumped it overboard. Mallen took it from him and sent him back for more sleep.
It was past dawn by an hour when the two young men rose again. Mallen had been right, they both felt much better, except very thirsty. The headache Brey felt earlier still lingered, though not as insistently. Nev's wince at the sunlight showed he too had a bit of a ringing in his head. They each drank their fill of water and sat amidships waiting for their headaches to subside a bit more.
Mallen told them that the stout carpenter had not yet risen but would likely be up and around soon; and just as predicted, Greer appeared a half hour later. He looked a little tired and his mood was less than sunny.
"You set sail after dark?! Have you lost your over-educated mind, Mallen?" he yelled. Clearly, he was not going to be in a good mood until he had gotten to yell for a while. The taller man just poured him a cup of tea, liberally added sugar, and handed it to him without comment. The grumpy sailor just took it and drank it down in two gulps, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Looks like there may be some storms coming in, season is right and the wind is too fresh for my liking. Thought it best to get an early start and try to beat them to Groden."
"At least you haven't run us aground or anything." He looked at the thin man a moment and asked, "Have you toasted?"
Mallen grinned and shook his head. "I thought it best to have someone sober to guide the ship. I will see to it now that you are up and feeling yourself."
Greer made a sour face. "There's a jug below for you. Micah is too young for full measure; maybe water one down for the captain anyway."
"I had thought to allow him a few prayers instead. He is only ten after all."
Greer grunted and said, "Well, I suppose that's fine for the boy. He is getting to be of age though." he added defensively.
"Not for a couple years yet. Besides," he replied, "seeing how these two fared, I think it only right to give the boy some more time." He chuckled as he turned to go below, calling for Micah as he went.
Greer turned to the young men and put his hands on his hips. "I just want to say I am proud of you both for honoring our mates. Now to be fair, there ain't usually fourteen to toast at once, usually just one or two." He grimaced a bit and seemed a bit uncomfortable. "I also want to apologize to you for being so harsh with you. I sailed with the captain for a spell and taking a month and more before we could honor him and our mates rankled me a bit; I shouldn't have taken it out on you, specially seeing as how you never had a drink before."
They could see he was sincere and understood his frustration and anger at having lost their mates; each forgave him without hesitation.
He stepped forward and squatted down in front of Nev. "I also owe you an extra apology. Knowing how yer mum was, I shouldn't o' pushed you. I won't do such a thing to you again, lad; solemn promise to that."
Nev wasn't very concerned he would end up in the same state as his mother; he had seen it enough to know he would never walk down that path. The first ale had actually been quite enjoyable, but he was wise enough by now to know that eventually one would lead to many more and he could just as easily fall under its power. "It's all right, Greer, I understand; and aside from feeling like I was dying, no real harm has come."
Greer laughed hard at his reply. Then he grabbed his head with his strong hands and held it as if it might split apart if he didn't hang on to it. "Oh! I think I need some more of that tea before I am ready to laugh too much." He got up and moved toward the cook shack to find some hot water to make his tea.
After a few minutes of silence Brey said, "I hope we don't lose any more mates, Nev. I don't think I could toast like that again."
Nev groaned. "I know what you mean, Brey. I know what you mean."
They spent the remainder of the day learning their location and seeing to the duties of keeping the ship sailing. The Navy crew was relieved and allowed to go below to sleep. Nev took the tiller as he had before and Brey saw to the set of the sails and the general upkeep of the deck. A ship sailing smoothly under full sail and fine weather is not too difficult even for a skeleton crew, so the day passed uneventfully, even enjoyably.
The Braydon sailed true on unseasonably calm seas for two weeks. Ten days out from Groden, a dark cloudbank that stretched across the length of the western horizon pursued the little ship as she sliced through the ocean heading home.
"That is going to be a nasty storm, lads." announced Mallen after watching the dark gray front for some time. "I estimate it will catch us by morning, maybe sooner."
Greer grunted by the sail maker's side, his eyes never leaving the approaching blackness. "Better get to lashing down anything that moves." He turned and added. "Care to try those storm sails of yours?"
"What's a storm sail?" asked Brey curiously. During the voyage, he and the squat carpenter had taught him and Nev nearly everything they could about ships and sailing, but had never mentioned anything like this.
Mallen pursed his lips in thought. "Well, Brey, I had this idea about a special kind of sail." He sat on a rope locker near the rail and started in with his best lecture voice. "You see, in a storm, winds aren't consistent, they gust from dead calm to a squall and back again in no time. Such winds would tear normal sails to shreds and maybe even heel us over enough to founder."
"Why not just take down the sails until the storm is over?" ask Nev.
"Ye gotta have at least some sail aloft, Nev, else you're at the mercy of the waves and the wind both. At least with some sail on, you can move with the storm and maintain some control over your tiller. Most ships put up a mainsail or two with some slack to keep them from being torn away and hope for the best." explained Greer.
"Now," said Mallen, once again picking up the thread of conversation, "the sails I have come up with will allow us to catch the normal winds reasonably well, but allows the gusts to mostly blow through. You see, the sails each have a set of ‘flaps’ in them. The edges are sewn and reinforced all the way around each edge to keep them from simply tearing open. This way we can keep up even full sails and still handle the gusts without capsizing or losing canvas to the wind." He grinned and shook his head slightly. "They haven't been tried before so we have no idea how they will actually fair, but the theory is sound enough."
"I think I get it. Even though the flaps would let some of the wind bleed off, we would still have enough push to steer and when it gusts the extra air just goes through the holes like water draining from a wash tub."
Mallen smiled widely. "That's it, Nev! You are a very clever boy; it took me three cups of rum for Greer here to get it right." He turned to his friend with a grin. "What say we give them a try?
Even if they don't work or they are torn to shreds, we will still have the main canvas."
"All right. We best move quickly, though, it will take a bit to get the canvas down and hang the new." remarked Greer
"I don't think we need hang the top sails, just the jibs and the main should do for now."
For the next hour, they all worked quickly to string the lifelines at the deck level and remove the sails and hang the special 'storm sails'. Through an ingenious series of fasteners and connectors Mallen had designed, the process went much more quickly than if they had used traditional methods.
The sails were raised as dusk fell and the remainder of the ship was made ready for the coming storm. Since they were in the middle of the ocean with no land within reasonable sailing distance, they were forced to prepare as best they could and hope the ship with her special sails would carry them through.
Each man donned an oiled slicker made of canvas. The garment is intended to keep much of the rain off, though they are notorious for leaking horribly.
The wind began to come up in gusts, making the sails boom dully as they snapped full and relaxed. Soon the sails boomed and held the wind as it increased with each further gust. The rain did not start calmly as one might expect in a normal rain. It came with drops as large as a copper and increased in frequency and size until a full downpour drenched every inch of the ship as well as those on deck. With the rain came the erratic winds; near calm in one moment was followed by a howling gust that made the masts creak under the strain. The sails seemed to be holding well enough, though the strain could be seen at the anchoring points, stretching the fabric.
Brey asked Mallen if his 'storm sails' would hold up. "They will hold, I think! I reinforced the anchor points at the corners with silk to give them some elasticity!" he called over the wind.
"What's eelast- Er, elasty-" Brey struggled with difficult word.
"Elasticity, Brey." he replied. "That means it stretches a bit so it won't rip." The young man just nodded, silently repeating the word to himself a few times.
Meanwhile Greer made his way back toward Nev, who manned the wheel. "Best lash yourself to them cleats, lad, so you'll not get washed overboard!" he barked over the howl of the wind.
"All right!" called Nev. "Here, take the wheel for a moment while I tie off!" He took the length of rope stowed next to the wheel for that purpose and tied to a cleat on the deck near one side of the wheel, then wound it around his waist a couple times before tying it off on the other side. Though the wheel was beneath a shelter of sorts, it was not really much more than a small roof and skeletal walls, allowing for the air and rain to blow right through. "That should do it!"
Greer examined the knots a moment before nodding his approval. "I'll stand this watch with you and turn it over to the Navy boys in a few hours."
"I can sail longer than that." responded Nev.
Greer firmly shook his head. "This storm will take a lot out of you, you'll be glad of a rest in a short time, lad. Trust me."
They stood side by side, battling the storm together. The stout ship was tossed and bucked violently. Though they were unable to take a proper reading, Greer estimated they reached speeds of nearly twenty knots when the wind blew strongly for a time. Waves of twenty feet and more crashed over the deck from stern to bow and rocked the sailors where they worked. It was only good precaution and attentive sailing that kept sailors from being washed overboard.
Two Navy sailors relieved them three hours later. They fought along the life lines, heading toward the hatch that led below deck. The roar of the wind and the blinding spray of salt water made the usually short journey seem miles long. They passed through the hatch right behind Brey and Mallen. Once the door was shut and the howl of the storm was muffled they all heaved a great sigh.
"I swear," declared Brey with a pant, "that is a mean storm."
Mallen chuckled wearily. "That, my young friend, is a babe compared to some of the gales we've seen. Isn't that true, Greer?"
"True enough. Why the masts are still standing and the sails seem to be holding. In a really bad storm, they'd both have been gone by now."
Nev gulped. "Then I am glad for the babe of a storm; I hope I never meet an older one than this!"
The older men laughed at the young man's odd turn of phrase. "I second that, lad." replied the lanky sail maker. "Who's for a cup of tea?"
The friends shared a hot cup of tea and tried to get a few hours sleep before battling the storm once again.
Finally, after three similar rotations, the storm blew itself out. The winds died down and the rain slackened to a cold drizzle. Though it was no warmer than it had been, it was much less miserable.
The 'storm sails' Mallen had contrived seemed to have done their job well. The ship had come through the storm in fine shape and never felt it was at the mercy of the swells or the fierce winds.
"It seems you have a good idea, my friend." said Greer with uncharacteristic cordiality.
The sail maker looked at him suspiciously, waiting for a following remark, when none was forthcoming he responded, "Thank you. I must admit they performed better than I had anticipated." He looked up at the sails thoughtfully for a moment. "I wonder if I could sell them. The Royal Navy could afford them and I think I could get testimony from the young lads sailing with us as an endorsement. What do you think?" he asked, looking at his mates.
"I believe that notion has some possibilities, my narrow friend." replied Greer with a grin. "Between your sails and the idea of the cargo mover that Brey and I have toyed with, we could make up for our loss on this trip and perhaps a bit more."
Mallen stroked his goatee thoughtfully. "We could indeed; a comfortable winter would make for a welcome change, eh my friend?" He let himself get lost in the thoughts of warm fires, hot food, and cool ale.