June 15, early morning.
The harbor roared with noise. Heavy boots thudded across the crude wooden piers, which creaked under the weight. Frode hoisted his pack and followed the column aboard the Adventure Charlie.
Junior officers, clerks, and shamans were permitted to remain on deck, though they were not allowed to wander. Most soldiers were crammed into the hold below, packed tightly among cargo.
Soon the tide at the mouth of the Mersey reached its peak. A sharp horn blast cut through the clamor.
"Hold fast! Not our turn yet!"
The captain barked at overeager sailors. After ten minutes, he swung his arm down decisively. Two crewmen turned the capstan, hauling up the heavy iron anchor.
A massive square sail rose. Below deck, the oarsmen chanted in rhythm as they pulled. The Adventure Charlie slipped out of the Mersey into the Irish Sea, sunlight flashing across the waves ahead.
The wind was weak; the cog made slow progress. They hugged the northern coast of Wales all day, finally anchoring at Holy Island in the northwest by dusk.
The soldiers in the hold could bear it no longer and poured onto the deck for fresh air. Some requested shore leave—denied.
Dinner was surprisingly good: a rich stew of salmon and shellfish. Frode crumbled hardtack into his bowl and waited patiently until it softened.
Afterward, bored soldiers fashioned crude fishing hooks from needles and tried their luck. The catch was meager, and officers soon drove them back below.
"Sleep early—or I'll make you!" the deputy captain roared from below, his voice chilling even those on deck.
Frode spread his thick wool cloak and lay beside his comrades under the open sky, staring at the brilliant stars.
At Sea
He woke to faint pecking.
The sky was dim with pre-dawn gray. A small seabird stood beside his hand, pecking at his cloak for crumbs.
He shooed it away and drifted back toward sleep—until a shrill whistle pierced the air. He bolted upright; others did the same.
"Stricter than the academy instructors," he grumbled inwardly.
He folded his cloak, slung his pack, and went aft with his waterskin. Sailors were hauling up fresh water from a smaller boat below.
He emptied his old water and refilled it.
His father had once remarked that wooden flasks and leather skins spoiled easily and needed replacing. Iron rusted. Copper was costly. Lead was poisonous. Silver resisted rot but was absurdly expensive.
Tin, after much consideration, had been chosen for future standard-issue flasks.
Before departure, Frode had heard that the Londinium arsenal was experimenting with tin alloys. Next year, perhaps, tin canteens would become common.
By midday the fleet left the Welsh coast, catching a gentle northeast wind into the Irish Sea.
Humpback whales surfaced occasionally, drawing cheers from sailors. At three in the afternoon, they approached Ireland's eastern shore. Black smoke rose from Howth Head, signaling their course.
Dublin
In the bay east of Dublin, poor locals trudged through mudflats collecting oysters and shellfish, hoping to sell them to the army.
They preferred trading with the regulars in black armor. The regular army paid. Noble levies were unpredictable—sometimes violent.
After landing, the 3rd Infantry Regiment occupied a temporary camp outside the city, spending days expanding it to house incoming forces.
By June 22, the last contingents arrived.
That afternoon, Captain Ingvarren brought Frode to the market and purchased ten full barrels of seafood. At dusk, the quartermaster issued beer and cane liquor.
Before supper, Ingvarren raised a wooden cup of cane spirit.
"Tomorrow we leave Dublin. That means entering the war zone. Maximum alert. Rein yourselves in—no foolishness."
The soldiers devoured the feast. Knives pried open oysters; crab shells cracked under dagger hilts. Some avoided seafood and chose smoked pork, sausage, and vegetable stew.
Frode tried everything. Afterward, he sat cross-legged, holding a cup of pale yellow cane liquor.
Unfiltered sediment floated within.
He took a sip—sweet, faintly burnt.
"Worse than wine, whisky, or mead," he thought. "If Uncle Hosa doesn't refine the process, this will remain a drink for commoners."
Into the War Zone
At dawn, the reveille whistle tore through the camp.
The mood was markedly different—tense.
A shaman approached quietly.
"Why aren't you wearing armor?"
"What?" Frode blinked. "Clerks are noncombatants. We march armored too?"
The shaman rolled his eyes.
"It's not regulation. It's common sense. In a war zone, danger comes from anywhere. If you don't want to die from a stray arrow, suit up."
Skipping breakfast, Frode hurriedly donned his black surcoat armor, lacing it tight. He strapped on arm guards, tightened his belt, then secured his helmet's chin strap.
Fully armored, he gulped down a few bites of hardtack and slipped into formation under the deputy captain's icy stare. A combat soldier would've earned lashes for such delay.
Leaving Dublin, the marching column was flanked by mounted rangers and paired shield teams, scanning constantly for threats.
At noon, horns sounded for rest.
Exempt from sentry duty, Frode found shade beneath a tree and ate hardtack and salted meat with water.
Suddenly, a large cavalry escort rode past.
At their center rode a man in a black cloak embroidered with a golden dragon.
As he passed Frode's section, the rider paused briefly—then continued without a word.
Frode did not need to be told who it was.
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