The Barons' War
Copyright© 2025 by Lumpy
Chapter 4
Frozen Sea, Near the Silent Isles
William didn’t know if he’d ever been this cold. Even through thick gloves he could barely feel his fingers, and ice crystals had formed on his eyebrows. The Frozen Sea lived up to its name; great sheets of ice floated like pale islands upon the dark waters, some larger than his ship.
William braced himself against the railing as the ship lurched again, water sloshing over his boots. Every time the hull crashed against a wave, the vessel shuddered with a groan that seemed to rise from its very bones. When he looked down, he saw seawater seeping through cracks in the planking, freezing in thin sheets before more water pushed through.
With one more look out at the sea, William turned and headed below decks to check on the status of the ship. It had been a concern ever since the battle with the Alchmaran raiders, and it was getting worse. Each day, William came down to look at the repairs, and each day, it seemed as if the stress fractures running through multiple planks had expanded. The temporary patches they’d applied were already failing, wooden pegs swelling and cracking as they froze.
“The cold makes everything worse,” the carpenter said. “Wood doesn’t bend; it breaks. Tar doesn’t seal; it cracks. And the water ... we’re bailing as fast as we can, but she’s taking on more than we can remove.”
“How long?”
“If the weather holds? Maybe a day. Less if the wind picks up.”
Not that they had any choices. The only real ports they could head to all belonged to the Icelands. If they sailed into any of them, he and his men would be arrested, and he would be sent to his father for judgment.
His men would fare much worse than that.
They’d sailed as close to the northern ice sheets as possible to avoid any Icelander ships, although those did not tend to sail north of Winterfang. It had worked, at least in as much as that they hadn’t needed to fight a second engagement.
The cost to the ship, on the other hand, was high.
“We have no choice but to press on,” William said. “We’ll pass the edge of Sidor by tomorrow and be able to turn south into warmer waters.”
“I don’t think we can make it that far. Not in this condition.”
William placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Then work faster. Use whatever materials you need. Take wood from the bunks or the galley if necessary. Just keep the ship afloat.”
When he returned to the deck, William found Eskild and Sir Drummond directing soldiers to assist the sailors.
“How bad?” Drummond asked.
“Bad enough. It won’t hold much longer.”
Eskild spat over the side. “The men are taking turns at the pumps, but half of them are too sick to stand.”
Indeed, many of William’s remaining retinue, thirty men-at-arms and six knights, were not sailors by nature. The rough seas had laid low even some of the toughest fighters, leaving them pale and retching.
“Double the rotation. If they can stand, we need them working. No man rests for more than an hour. And find those who aren’t yet sick. We need every able body.”
As daylight faded, the temperature dropped further. The sea spray froze on the rigging, adding dangerous weight to the lines.
William did what he could, supervising the bailing operation and passing buckets alongside his men. He knew his father would behave differently in this circumstance, hiding in the relative warmth of the captain’s cabin, but a prince who wouldn’t share his men’s hardships didn’t deserve their loyalty.
“Your Highness should rest,” Sir Drummond said, taking a bucket from William’s hands. “You’ll be needed with a clear head if things worsen.”
“Things have already worsened. And they’ll worsen still more before dawn.”
He spoke more truth than he knew. As night fell fully, the wind shifted, bringing with it a wall of clouds that blotted out the stars.
The sudden squall struck with fury. Rain mixed with sleet lashed the deck, while waves twice the height of a man crashed over the bow. The ship rolled dangerously, water pouring through the scuppers and finding every crack in the damaged hull.
A massive wave broke over the starboard rail, sweeping across the deck with enough force to knock men from their feet. Two sailors went sliding toward the port side, certain to be lost overboard until they desperately grabbed the rigging as they were sliding past. The ship listed sharply, groaning like a dying beast.
Below decks, barrels crashed against bulkheads, spilling their contents. Crates of supplies became battering rams, shattering against support beams.
William fought his way down the ladder, water rushing up to meet him. He found chaos in the hold, supplies floating free, men struggling to secure what they could while fighting to stay above the rising water.
“Get those barrels lashed down!” William ordered, wading toward a group of soldiers trying to corral a large cask that threatened to smash through the hull from the inside. “And move anything valuable above!”
The ship lurched again, sending William crashing against a bulkhead. Pain flared in his shoulder, but he pushed it aside. He helped two soldiers lash down a crate of food, then directed others to form a bucket line from the lowest point in the hold.
When he returned to the deck, the situation had deteriorated further. The mainmast rigging had snapped on one side, leaving the sail to flap wildly in the wind like a wounded bird. Three sailors clung to the yards, fighting to secure the canvas before it tore free completely.
“Cut it if you must!” the captain shouted up to them. “Better to lose a sail than the mast!”
William watched as the men worked with knives and bare hands, the wind threatening to tear them from their perches with each gust. One sailor lost his grip, hanging by a single hand for a heart-stopping moment before his fellows pulled him back to safety.
Through the night, the battle against the sea and storm continued. William moved between decks, helping where he could, encouraging when he couldn’t. The ship’s carpenter worked frantically to patch new leaks, but for each breach he sealed, two more appeared.
“The lower deck is lost,” Eskild reported near midnight, water streaming from his beard. “Completely flooded.”
“What does the captain say?”
“Three hours. Maybe less.”
“And the storm?”
“No sign of breaking.”
Bad news, but what choices did they have? It wasn’t like there was anywhere to go. They would either survive or they wouldn’t. All he could do now was pray.
The ancients must have been watching them because as the first pale light of dawn broke through the clouds, the winds began to ease. The seas remained rough, but the killing fury of the storm had passed, and they were still afloat, but with the amount of water they were taking on, no bailing in the world was going to keep them above water much longer.
“Land!” came the cry from the lookout. “Land to port!”
William rushed to the rail, straining his eyes toward where the man pointed. There, through breaking clouds, he saw it, a dark smudge on the horizon. A fairly large island, its shores white with snow and ice.
“How far?”
“Three leagues, perhaps four,” the captain said, joining him at the rail.
“Change course. Make for land with all speed.”
“Your Highness...”
“You said the ship was starting to sink, didn’t you? It’s the island or the sea floor, Captain. Your choice.”
The captain nodded and barked orders to the helmsman. The ship groaned as it turned, laboring through the waves toward the distant shore.
The flooding accelerated with the change in direction. Men worked the pumps in a frenzy, while others bailed with buckets, helmets, anything that could hold water. It wasn’t enough. The vessel settled deeper by the minute, its movements growing sluggish and unresponsive.
William helped a group of soldiers move supplies to higher ground as water claimed more of the lower decks. No one had slept that night, and his arms burned with exhaustion, but he forced himself to continue. If the ship sank before reaching the shore, they would all die in these freezing waters.
Of course, saying you were going to beach on the island and actually doing it were very different things. Rocky outcroppings lurked just beneath the water’s surface, ready to tear out the ship’s belly. Thankfully, the captain knew his business and ordered sailors to take soundings, calling depths from the bow as they navigated the treacherous approach.
“Five fathoms!” called a sailor.
“Four fathoms!”
“Three fathoms, rocks to starboard!”
The ship scraped against something beneath the waves, the impact sending men stumbling. A terrible grinding noise rose from below, as if the keel itself was being torn away.
“Two fathoms! Rocks everywhere!”
The vessel lurched to port, then back to starboard, its hull dragging across the underwater hazards. William clung to the rail as the deck tilted sharply. Loose items turned deadly, sliding across the planking and striking unwary legs. A water barrel broke free of its lashings and crashed against the mast, narrowly missing Sir Drummond’s head.
“Brace yourselves!” the captain shouted as a wave lifted the stern, driving them forward toward the beach.
William grabbed a rope and wrapped it around his wrist, then reached out to steady a young soldier who looked ready to be sick with fear.
The impact, when it came, threw everyone to the deck. The ship struck ground with a deafening crack, the hull fracturing in a dozen new places but somehow remaining intact. Men and equipment tumbled across tilting decks as the vessel ground to a halt on the frozen shore.
For a long moment, silence reigned, broken only by the creak of settling timbers and the moan of the wind. Then, gradually, men began to stir, checking themselves and their companions for injuries.
“Is anyone dead?” William called, pulling himself to his feet.
His left arm throbbed where he’d struck it against a capstan, but nothing seemed broken. Reports came back from throughout the ship. Cuts, bruises, and two broken bones, but miraculously, no fatalities. As the tide began to recede, the ship settled at an increasingly severe angle, its bow driven into the rocky beach while its stern remained partially afloat.
William made his way to where the captain stood surveying their situation, his face grim beneath its weathering. The captain pointed toward the mist-shrouded interior of the island.
“The Silent Isles, Your Highness. The largest of them, if I don’t miss my guess.”
William hadn’t even considered that was where they were. He’d heard stories of these islands. Of the attempts of the Icelanders’ ancestors to set up colonies, only for every man to go missing. Of things seen by passing ships. They appeared on few maps, and when they did, there were often added warnings in the margins.
“I thought sailors avoided these waters.”
“With good reason. Ships that land here tend not to leave. Crews vanish without a trace. No bodies, no wreckage, just empty vessels found drifting months later, if they’re found at all.”
William studied the shoreline. Snow-covered rocks giving way to a dark line of pines further inland. A mist rose from the forest, obscuring anything beyond a hundred yards from the shore.
“Old sailors’ tales,” said Sir Drummond, joining them.
The captain shook his head. “I’ve known three good vessels lost in these waters. Good crews, too. Experienced men who wouldn’t fall to common dangers.”
William didn’t have time for superstition. “Tales or not, we’re here now. And we need to survive until we can leave.”
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