On a warship in the northern sea

Exarch Kalran of house Hothemer looked at the ships they were pursuing with narrowed eyes, trying to gauge the distance. At this pace, he figured they’d need at least another hour to catch up. The Dross islanders were disorganized rabble, but they were of Vashkai descent. Seamanship was in their blood, and it showed. This was the first time in a while they’d even caught one of their raiding packs. He itched to get stuck in, to rend and tear. It was in his blood as much as sailing. Kal had never been a brilliant strategist, never been a great leader of armies, not like Luthor. He knew that and accepted it, there was no shaming in knowing one’s limits. When it came to fighting though, and to leading men into battle, he was second to none. No false humility, he knew his strengths, there was no shame in that.

About 70 minutes later, the grappling hooks were finally thrown. Before the ships were even fully pulled together, while there was still a good five feet of distance between the decks, Kal leapt. He slammed into the deck of the lower vessel, his steel-shod boots splintering the planks. “UUUUURW’KAL ASHVAN!” The old Vashkai battle cry tore from his throat. The islanders came at him with no hesitation, showing no fear. They would die well. Not content to wait for them to reach him, Kal lunged. He did not aim for the closest foe, but rather the second one. His reach was long and his legs powerful, allowing him to catch the unsuspecting warrior in the throat with his axe. Without needing to think about it, he immediately threw himself to the side and a sword strike aimed at his back caught only air. He heard a number of loud thumping impacts and felt the deck shudder. His men had arrived, this was over. The enemy just did not know it yet.

For all their skills as seamen, the Dross’ ships were barely worth capturing. Vashkai they were, but too stuck in the old ways. The isles they hailed from were split into the domains of a dozen or so feuding chieftains, just like the Vashkai had been in the old home up north, before the first chosen. Kal walked along the line of bound prisoners. Most of the islanders had gone down fighting, as was their way. They would be formidable indeed, were they not so obstinate. The chosen had united the Vashkai of old and showed them a better way, it was a shame these had reverted. He shook his head and went up to the steering deck.

The sea was choppy, and the deck rolled under him, but Kal’s sea legs had been with him since he took his first steps. His father had taken him out to sea before he could even walk. Standing at the railing, he thought he spotted sails far off to the north. He pulled out his spyglass. Sure enough, sails, and clearly elven ones. Kal grumbled. Whatever the increased elven activity of late was about, it didn’t sit right with him. The prophecy of the chosen made it quite clear that, when the pieces were down, the elves would be enemies. Few remembered that now, just as few remembered the true Stormlord. The empire was to blame for that, which saddened Kal. He was Vashkai to the bone, but he was also loyal to the empire. The empire and the Vashkai had been good for each other. Ever since the treaties had been signed, the Vashkai had provided a warrior elite for the Toranians, and in time they had become as much a part of the empire as anyone. In turn, imperial technology and advances had proven hugely beneficial to the Vashkai. Their ships had been able to run down the Dross ones today thanks to improvements that originated in Toranian universities. But the matter of faith had been a problem. The Vashkai beliefs had needed to change to fit better with imperial doctrine. The Stormlord became just another god, rather than the greatest of them all, and the prophecy of the chosen was largely forgotten. If not for the dedicated few who kept the stories and practices alive in secret, the ancient destiny of the Vashkai may have been lost forever. But house Hothemer, once kings in their own right, would not forget. Kal would not forget. If a chosen ever rose again, and he was sure one would, he would be ready. And so too would house Irrvan, house Oglom, house Tugrin, and others. When the chosen called, the Vashkai would answer. He dearly hoped he would live to see it.