Encladeia: Thrones & Dominions

Chapter 1 | The Northern Sands

Baron Zerpentis

The Sea Serpent’s hull was relentlessly hammered by the waves as it sailed. The black banners of House Zerpentis, which bore their sigil of a golden sea serpent, fluttered in the breeze. Any lesser vessel would have capsized by now, but the Sea Serpent was a grand and mighty ship, built of the hardest ironwood and crafted by the finest Zerpentian shipwrights. Her figurehead, a golden sea dragon, reared ferociously and announced the majesty of House Zerpentis. She was the prized jewel of the fleet of House Zerpentis and the personal flagship of their lord.

Baron was by the helm, constantly directing it in order to steady Sea Serpent’s course amidst the domineering force of the waves. He stood tall and firm, his free-flowing chestnut hair tossing about as the wind gusted. The young man had recently turned eighteen years of age and was determined to forge his own glorious legacy for all to remember.

That is what his father would have wanted, after all—an ambitious son. He never ceased to ramble on about glory, being a real man, or the family’s reputation. “One weak link can break the chain of a mighty dynasty,” he would always say to Baron. “You must be strong and mighty.”

Baron thought himself strong and mighty, indeed. He could wield a hulking great sword as if it were as light as a feather and he could also swing it as swiftly as a dagger. But his father would have disagreed with Baron’s elevated view of himself. Then again, nothing ever seemed to please his father, even to his deathbed. Never was there a time when his father would admit pride for his only son, and there would never be such a time again.

The passing of Lord Thorgan remained fresh in his mind. The sapients had performed as best as they could, but to no avail. Just a year before his father’s death, his mother had died as well during childbirth. Baron missed his beloved mother dearly; unlike his father, she had seen him for what he was: her son.

Those useless sapients, he thought bitterly. All those years of study, and for what? He had considered having them all drawn and quartered for their failure, but what good would that do?

His thoughts were interrupted as his first mate approached from the side. He looked as if he were about to speak, but suddenly hunched over and began vomiting.

Baron was not impressed. He gave a look of dismay as he stepped back from the puddle that was forming. “What is wrong with you, sailor?”

Standing, the first mate wiped his mouth and stood at attention. “Nothing, m’lord. Just sea sickness, is all. I’ve come to report to you.”

“Did you receive a hawk?”

“No, m’lord.” The first mate pointed out a large cluster of oncoming clouds in the distance, a dark and oppressive blanket that blotted out the sky. “Storm clouds are coming in. Big ones, m’lord.”

Baron gazed at the clouds, observing them for a moment.

“We should turn back and find the nearest port-”

“No,” Baron interjected, turning back to the first mate. “We’re too far from Kelin’s Point now.”

The first mate was perturbed and stepped forward to protest against his lord. “M'lord, the storms could be deadly.”

“You dare to question my word?” Baron scowled at him, threatening to draw his sword.

At once, the first mate lowered his head and retreated into a submissive stance. “No, my lord.”

“Then shut your mouth,” Baron hissed. “Inform the rest of the fleet that we will maintain our course.”

“Yes, my lord.” Defeated, the first mate bowed and began to leave, but was interrupted as Baron caught his arm. He turned to look his lord in the eye.

“Remember your place,” warned Baron, his eyes filled with abhorrence. “And clean up your disgusting puddle.”

The storm clouds drew closer to the fleet, black as shadow and the abyss. Brilliant streaks of lightning flashed and for a moment illuminated the dark clouds, followed by the deafening roar of thunder. The air became thick with the salty aroma of incoming rainfall, and a sense of dread fell upon the men of the fleet.

Looking up to the sky as the first droplets began to fall, Baron cycled through second thoughts about his decision to press forward. But he was impatient and did not wish to waste time returning to safer waters. Their ships were well-fortified, after all. They would weather the storm with ease, no matter how powerful. Even the gods of the sea could not possibly fathom sinking them. “We’re invincible,” he declared.

“My lord!” The shout of a sailor snapped him out of his thoughts. Baron rushed over to the side of the ship to gain a better view of the oncoming wave.

Perhaps I’ve made an error, he thought as he started to reflect on life decisions, tightening his grip on the side railing and gritting his teeth. His growing dread surged as he witnessed the monstrous wave swallow a ship of war whole. So much for ironwood. It grew ever larger and loomed over him like a great leviathan of the sea that blotted out the sky. Then it all went to black.

The obnoxious squawking of birds greeted Baron as he awoke. He felt the waves gently brush against his legs. As he opened his eyes, he saw a swarm of seagulls circling overhead. Barely able to stand, he had to muster all of his remaining strength in order to do so. Looking around, Baron beheld what remained of his fleet: shattered shipwrecks and limp, waterlogged bodies.

He also found that he had lost his sword.

Stumbling through the sand, he approached the nearest person and knelt to try and awaken them. He saw that it was a man, likely a young adult. The sailor had unkempt brown hair and a beard that was just starting to properly grow in.

With his hand outstretched, Baron struck the sailor across the face, hard. He immediately came to, coughing and gasping for air.

Baron glanced at his hand, surprised that the slap worked.

After he had cleared out the last of the seawater, the sailor met Baron’s own eyes. “Lord Baron?”

Baron lifted the sailor to his feet, dusting sand residue from his soaked clothes.

“What’s your name, sailor?”

“Jon, m’lord,” the sailor answered. “Jon Tiperan.”

“Jon Tiperan,” Baron repeated. “Search around, and see if you can awaken any of the others.”

Obeying, Jon went away. Baron turned the other direction to search the debris and try to awaken the others. None of the other sailors were able to be roused, but Baron managed to find a crate that was still intact.

“It seems we are the only ones who survived,” Baron lamented as he approached Jon and saw that he was alone. “Did you find anything?”

“This, m’lord,” replied Jon, who held up a dagger. “I found some supplies, as well.”

“Good,” Baron smiled. “You may keep the dagger. We will need all of the supplies we can get our hands on. Keep searching.”

“Yes, m’lord.”

Jon departed once more. Baron looked around and spotted a sword still strapped onto the body of a sailor. It was only now that he recognized him as the first mate he had scolded so harshly before being stranded.

He knelt beside the body, grabbing a hold of the scabbard. “Apologies, friend.”

Ripping the sword from the first mate’s waist, he stood and returned to meet with Jon once more.

“Did you find anything else?” he asked.

“Supplies, m’lord.” Jon held up a stuffed pouch. “From a crate I managed to crack open. Couldn’t find much else that was still good.”

Baron nodded in approval, turning to observe their surroundings. They were on a beach and further inland was a vast forest. Rows upon rows of majestic trees stretched beyond. He had no idea where precisely they were, or even if they were still in Aladarian lands. These woods were particularly unfamiliar to him, for he had only ever grown up in the mountains and on the high seas. On occasion, he had gone hunting within the forest, but was by no means a veteran of the environment.

Whatever maps they had left now were likely destroyed or lost. No matter, he thought. They could simply trek south, using the Sun’s position to calibrate their directions. To head south was the safer option, considering that the Empire stretched from a certain point in the north until the very end of the southern tip of the continent. Only a portion of the north was under Imperial rule. The lands that remained unconquered were inhabited by hordes of unruly Timbarmen, a dangerous folk.

In the past, the Empire had fought and won two wars against the Timbarmen. The savages could not possibly be thought of as suitable allies or benefactors. Baron shuddered at the thought of being captured and left at their mercy. They would have brutally and sadistically tortured him for weeks, without ever granting him the mercy of death. There were even rumors that claimed they dined on human flesh.

“My lord,” whispered Jon, tugging Baron’s sleeve and pointing. “Over there.”

Baron turned. Three unsavory-looking men adorned in furry pelts approached. As they drew closer, Baron realized they held weapons—most likely daggers or shivs. Timbarmen, perhaps. They had to have been stranded in the far north after all.

“Proceed with caution,” Baron said quietly, drawing the first mate’s sword. Jon brandished his dagger and stood beside his liege lord.

Slowly, the Timbarmen came into better view, and Baron observed their faces. The savage in the center was by far the most threatening one, standing at least a head taller than him. Their leader, perhaps? His dark brown beard was long and scraggly—more so than the others, and he was well-built, his shoulders bulging with muscle. Eyeing his hands, Baron saw that the tall brute wielded a long axe.

“Come no closer,” he warned, pointing his sword. The Timbarmen halted immediately, their eyes assessing the two Zerpentians who now stood before them.

The savages reeked of blood, sweat, and grime. The unpleasant stench alone caused Baron to visibly grimace.

The three Timbarmen were fashioned in a patchwork of fur pelts, made from sewing together the skins of forest beasts. The man to the left of the tall brute had a tattoo etched into his exposed right shoulder, its twisted light blue patterns resembling a wolf’s head. Baron also noticed that the third Timbarman wore a necklace made of teeth—no doubt some sort of display for tallying his kills.

“Are you fighters?” inquired the tall brute, who spoke with a peculiar accent. He then smiled slyly. “Or are you food?”

Baron’s heart sank at the savage’s last words. He clutched his sword’s hilt tightly, glaring into the deep abyss of the Timbarman’s dark eyes as he raised its blade.

“Come now, savage, and let us find out,” he answered.

Chuckling, the tall brute seemed aroused at the prospect of a fight, and he took up his long axe. His companions prepared their daggers.

Taking the first steps forward, Baron lunged at the tall brute and thrust his sword at his stomach. The brute parried Baron’s jab with his axe, redirecting his sword with a precise, calculated motion, and then swung down with a powerful blow towards Baron’s shoulder.

The young lord dodged in the nick of time, rolling to the side as the axe head rushed past his head and narrowly missed its mark. The tall brute laughed sadistically as he recovered his stance and allowed the tattooed man to try at Baron.

With a quick glance, Baron spotted Jon in the midst of intense combat with the third Timbarman, the one who wore the necklace. His attention swiftly returned to his foe at hand.

Dodging a sloppy swing from the tattooed savage, Baron lunged and drove his sword into his heart, twisting. As he withdrew his blade, the brute yelled and came at him once more with a whole slew of turbulent swings. Caught on the back foot, Baron could barely avoid the brute’s fury. His heel then found a stray obstacle, and he yelped as he fell onto his back.

Crazed with insatiable bloodlust, the brute struck from above and swung down his mighty axe for the final killing stroke.

Before the blow could be dealt, Jon emerged from behind and stabbed him in the leg, freezing his swing and felling him to the ground like a mighty tree brought down by the lumberjack.

Seizing his sword, Baron leapt back onto his feet and pressed the blade against the Timbarman’s neck. Glancing around, he saw that the brute was the last savage alive, for Jon had slain the one who wore the necklace.

A smirk on his face, Baron relished in his victory. “On your feet, Jon. We’re taking this one prisoner.”