Herbalist and Dwarven Blacksmith

The deck was larger than it had looked from shore.

The mainmast stood in the middle of the deck. Erwin stepped aboard, his eyes moving between the mast base, the bow bollards, and the hatch covers.

He lightly tapped the planks twice with his fingers, then spoke.

"A standard trading cog. Single mast, square sail, fifteen meters long, five meters across the beam, with a carrying capacity of roughly one hundred and fifty tons above the waterline."

He pointed at the square hatch in the middle of the deck.

"The entrance to the main cargo hold. The standard configuration for this type of vessel is two levels: ballast and heavy cargo below, people or lighter cargo above."

Miko stood half a step behind Ron, staring at Erwin with his mouth slightly open.

Erwin tapped the deck again with his toe and shifted left.

"This section was replaced. The original deck planks should have run lengthwise; these run crosswise. It was a temporary repair made midway through a voyage."

He raised his head, taking his eyes off the deck to look at Ron.

"This ship has suffered at least one serious deck breach. The hull is covered in countless old arrow marks too. Looks like Walter the respectable merchant had some less-than-respectable business at sea."

"No wonder everyone except Walter was wearing light armor." Ron nodded.

Erwin tucked the plank back beneath his arm. "In naval boarding battles, heavy armor sends you to the bottom faster than a stone if you fall overboard."

Ron walked toward the hatch and pulled it open.

The stench of sweat, urine, and something unidentifiable hit him so hard that he staggered back two steps.

The ladder led down into pitch-black darkness.

"Torches."

They illuminated rows upon rows of wooden cages in the hold.

The hold fell silent for about the span of a heartbeat.

Then sound poured forth—not shouting, but the sound that escaped from dozens of chests at once when people who had been imprisoned for a long time finally saw someone approach who was not carrying a whip.

Some pressed themselves against the wooden bars, reaching through the gaps toward the torchlight, their fingers trembling.

Ron stood on the stairs with a torch held before him.

The first thing he saw was eyes. Dozens of pairs of eyes gleamed behind the wooden bars. Some blinked, some did not. Some remained still even after the firelight swept over them, their bodies already rigid as they clung to the bars.

Ron's gaze lingered on those eyes for a moment, then moved on.

"Open the cages."

Miko was the first to move. He took the battle axe handed over by one of his companions, walked to the nearest cage, and smashed off the iron lock.

But no one came out.

The people inside shrank back, staring at the sword in Miko's hand, then at the giant behind him—two meters and twenty centimeters tall and covered head to toe in chainmail.

Ron stepped forward two paces.

He raised the torch higher, lighting his own face.

"Everyone," he said, his voice echoing through the hold. "My name is Ron. This ship belongs to me now. Everything on it belongs to me. The weapons belong to me. The gold belongs to me."

He paused.

"But you do not belong to me."

Someone in a cage moved, leaning forward.

"You have two choices." Ron's voice was deep and clear, carrying to every person in the hold.

"Leave now, and no one will stop you. Beyond this beach, there's marshland to the east, an estuary to the west, and dense forest to the north. How far you get depends on your own abilities."

He raised his right hand and hooked his thumb over his shoulder.

"Or come back to the camp with me. There are walls, food, and beds there, but you cannot leave for the time being. This ship is connected to Nilfgaard's military forces.

"You have seen their faces, and you have seen ours. Before this matter is resolved, anyone leaving the camp could expose its location. When that happens, it won't be just you who die."

His gaze swept from the front of the hold to the back.

"Those who come with me can earn food and shelter through labor. Those who can farm will farm. Those who can forge will forge. Those who can cook will cook. If you can do none of that, you can still carry things. No one eats for free."

He wedged the torch into an iron ring on the bulkhead, illuminating the entire hold.

"Choose."

The hold was quiet for a while. Then a middle-aged woman in gray robes rose to her feet. Her hair was a tangled mess, and she held a child in her arms. She walked up to Ron, looked up at him once without saying anything, then carried the child past him and climbed the ladder.

The second to stand was a young man, so thin that his collarbones jutted from his collar. He headed for the hatch behind Ron. Then came the third, the fourth, and more after them, filing out onto the deck.

The last person to emerge from a cage was a dwarf.

When he came out, everyone in the hold heard it. Not his footsteps—his shoulder slammed into the side of the cage door, knocking an entire wooden bar crooked.

He cursed, his voice as rough as an anvil being hammered in a smithy. He stood only as high as Ron's waist, but his shoulders were absurdly broad, and the arms hanging at his sides were thicker than Miko's thighs.

He stood at the cage door and squinted as he scanned the hold. His gaze paused on Miko's sword, then he tipped back his head to look at Ron's face.

"You said there'll be food if I go with you?" His voice held both suspicion and a trace of hope.

"Yes," Ron said.

"Got a smithy?"

"Iron, yes. No smithy."

The dwarf snorted.

"Iron is enough. I can build the rest myself." He slapped both hands against his chest. "Brom, blacksmith. Been working iron forty-seven years. Weapons, armor—I can forge it all. Whatever you need, I can make it. But I have three rules."

He raised one thick, stubby finger.

"First, I don't work for nothing. Food, lodging, and drink provided. And the drink better be good."

He raised a second finger.

"Second, if I say I can make it, I can make it. If I say I can't, throwing gold at me won't change that. I don't disgrace my craft."

His third finger rose, then dropped again. The corners of his mouth pulled down, making his beard tremble.

"Third... haven't thought of one yet. I'll tell you when I do."

Ron looked down at him, and Brom looked back. The dwarf craned his neck upward, his face buried beneath curly red beard.

"There's alcohol in the camp," Ron said. "Not much, but enough for you."

Brom's mouth curled upward. Swaying his shoulders, he headed for the deck.

Someone rose at the very back of the hold.

She had been sitting in the corner the whole time. Her light golden hair was braided down her back and tied with a faded blue strip of cloth. A row of small leather pouches hung from her waist. There were no injuries on her face, but her cheeks were hollow from hunger.

She stopped before Ron and looked up at him. Her eyes were gray-green.

"Aina, herbalist of the Temple of Melitele," she said. "You're hurt."

Ron looked down at her.

"Your palm," she said. "It's chafed raw."

Ron held out his palm. A layer of skin had been rubbed off near the base.

She pulled a small ceramic jar from one of her pouches. The pale green salve smelled cool and bitter, like crushed mint mixed with wormwood. Without asking whether Ron wanted it, she smeared it directly onto his palm. The ointment was cool, and Ron's fingers twitched when it touched the wound.

"Change it once tomorrow," she said, slipping the jar back into her pouch. "You won't need it the day after."

She looked up into Ron's eyes.

"You said we wouldn't be able to leave for a while after entering the camp. I heard you." Her fingers pulled the pouch strings tight. "I'll go with you, but I have conditions."

"Go on."

"Everyone in the camp, soldier or farmer, comes to me when they're wounded or sick. If someone gives birth, I handle it." Her voice was gentle but firm. "But I decide what medicine is used, and if I say a wounded person must rest, you cannot send them into battle."

She paused, her gray-green eyes unblinking.

"The Nilfgaardians drove out all the priestesses. My teacher refused to leave, so they dragged her away. I don't even know whether she's dead or alive." Her lips pressed together, tugging at the cracked corner of her mouth until a trace of blood seeped out.

"But I will not forget Melitele's teachings. Every suffering person deserves to be healed, no matter what god they believe in, no matter which side they stand on."

She wrapped the pouch string around her finger and pulled it tight.

Ron looked at her.

"Herb garden," he said. "There's an empty patch behind the camp. Plant whatever you think can grow there."

Aina smiled softly, nodded once, and walked toward the ladder.