Early Works Part 8 -- The Brigand Sea-Prince

The Brigand Sea-Prince

I can’t say what got into me that I wrote a fantasy novel. I suppose I used to read them back in the day, but I was never a hardcore fan of fantasy, so it is hard for me to understand why I put the effort into a fantasy story rather than a straight science fiction one, since I was writing this at the same time as the Hybrid-worlder. It’s a mystery. But I have the manuscript with my name on it, so when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable must be the truth.

So it would seem that The Brigand Sea-Prince is my 78,000 word fantasy novel from 1979-1980 time period. The story is narrated by an envoy charged with telling some seaborne barbarians that the kingdom he represents will no longer pay tribute to them to avoid having their seaside cities sacked. I don’t remember much more than that – obviously he makes it to the island court of these pirates of Ividish’fa (You really need to remember their name, I only repeat it a dozen times in the first three pages…). The only other thing I remember about the story is that he escapes the dungeons by burying himself in the earth floor of his cell, managing to cover enough of himself to be missed in the dark cell. In the last year or so I had looked over the beginning of this story, wondering if I could recast it as a young adult fantasy – something to work on after I finished The Lost Star’s Sea. But, well, it seemed too bad as it stood, and retyping and revising it into something presentable, if that were possible (iffy) would take the same amount of time of writing something entirely new, so I abandoned that idea. And truth be told, I have no desire to write YA fiction, even though I have.

Once again the story starts very slowly, some things never change. And as I said, I repeat the name of the hero’s captors, a dozen times in the first few pages. That really bugged me on rereading it. Interestingly enough, I also did something I hate doing now – starting the story in the middle of the story, and then having to go back and fill in the first half (or more) of it. It seems that a lot of writers feel that they have to start a story with a Bang!, and then have to retrace their steps to get to the part of the story that actually goes Bang! As I said, I’m not a fan of that, nor of slicing and dicing a story temporally and/or with different narrators or points of view. I view those stories with suspicion. What type of story do you have if you feel that you have to make a jigsaw puzzle of it to make it interesting to the reader? While a bit of backstory may be called for, I prefer a story to be told from the beginning to the end more or less in chronological order, and from one point of view. I always picture the reader, or myself, if I am the reader, traveling alongside the hero(s) of the story, so I don’t want to be too far away from them, lose sight of them, or look down like a god on them. But, that’s just my taste, it’s all good.

Anyway, back to the Brigand Sea-Prince. Well, actually, the less said about it, the better. It is pretty bad, but I guess that not unexpected. You have to start somewhere, and it takes work to get better. I’d like to think my published work is a lot better, in part by the writing I did off and on over so many years that never went anywhere, and perhaps just by getting older and knowing more as well. Enough talk, here is the opening pages of The Brigand Sea-Prince. You’ve been warned.

The Brigand Sea-Prince

Chapter One A Prisoner of the Sea-Barbarians

We stood in silence – waiting – withing the dimly illuminated bowels of what looked to be the lower hold of a vast galleon. It was, however, the Great Hall and Throne Room of the sea-raiders of Ividish’fa.

We – the six pirates of my guard and myself – loitered near the throne of Ividish’fa waiting for arrangements to be made for my stay in Ividish’fa. The had not troubled to do so before my audience with Traven, the Captain-over-all the Men and Ships of Ivisish’fa, because they had confidently expected me to pay with my life for the insults I bore to their proud sea-prince. That I live – now – is at best a fleeting triumph, for certainly I shall die.

As we waited, I gazed about the vast, grim chamber. Its ‘deck’ was of pale, stone-polished wood, its walls were sheathe, ship-like with massive planks, blackened with age and torch-soot. The ceiling, high overhead, was supported on two rows of mast-sized wooden pillars and rounded, spar-like beams. Just beneath the beams of the ceiling ran a single row of portals along both of the curving walls that formed the ‘bow’ and ‘stern’ of the Great Hall. Through them the pale fingers of early morning sunlight stretched, and the sea-breeze whistled gaily to stir the time-faded pennants that hung from the beams. Hard by us, stood the throne of Ividish’fa; the only fixed feature of the otherwise barren hall. The throne was carved out of a single piece of wood in all manner of sea-monsters, with its back carved as a ship’s wheel. Before the throne an ancient looking tiller, worn and battered was set in the deck, no doubt something akin to the scepter or sword of state. And risigh directly behind the throne was the largest tree trunk I have ever seen; fully thirty paces a’round. Rising through the deck, it stood straight up through the ceiling, through the private chambers above and through the roof to carry high the crimson standard of Ividish’fa.

As an emissary of my lord and liege, Mirn, Tysar of the Land and People of Cha Tralae, I had just conveyed his missive to the Captain-over-all. Words that though princely said, could only be considered an isult to the dark, barbaric pride and bloody heritage of the Ividish’fa chieftain. Having done so, my mission was all but over. As I noted; I had only to die.

Yet, I draw some solace for the few glowing embers that still lay scattered in the cold ash of my mission. One such ember is that I stood were no man not born of Ividish’fa or slave of the Ividish’fians for twenty season-cycles has ever stood before. I have traveled far beyond the charts of the Saroun, beyone even the sight of the farthest seeing sorcerer of the Saroun. I have been allowed to reach Ividish’fa’; islands more legend than fact in the Saroun, where it is said that they are either veiled in powerful magic or laying with the shadow land of the Whither-world. I know the truth, but alas, the secret is safe with me.

And I know more about the Ividish’fian pirates and their history than any scholar of the Saroun. This knowledge, too, will never reach the Saroun. I have been shown what lies behind the bloody legends of the sea-barbarianns, and it has tempered my view of them – though it does not blind me to the fact that they will kill me, nor alter the facth that prudent men should strive to keeep a horizon between their galleon and the crimson sails of an Ividish’fian raider, or that the inhabitants of coast-wise town should flee to the hinterland at the approach of an Ividish’fian raiding band.

As an emissary of many season-cycles; I can intrigue until the headsman’s sword divides me; for I have learned just why I was allowed to reach Ividish’fa against all their age-old rules: that I might serve as a cat’s paw to further the subtle intrigues of Ivre, the ex-regent and mentor to young Traven, the pirate’s chieftain. By deftly refusing to play the parts Ivre has cast me – as I was able to do today – I shall them the chill of these days in the shadow of death.

Still, these are at best fleeting triumphs, fleeting warmth, that do not deflect my death even a day. And I had already fallen into brooding upon the cold ashes of my predicament when I heard the peculiar, shuffling walk of old Ivere. The guards stiffened as the grim-faced Master of Ships emerged from behind the great mast and beckoned the captain of the guards to his side.

For me, he spared not a sour glance.

The hissing of their whispered conference sounded loud in the hollow silence of the nearly empty hall. Quickly it was over, and Ivre turn and disappeared into shadows behind the massive bolt. I was once more blindfolded, as I had been when I was brought up to the Great Hall, and led from the hall, out into the windy brightness atop the rock upon which the Great Hall, like a stone ship aground on a reef in the sky, was built.

Once more I was led down the long series of steps that wound up the nearly perpendicular face of the pinnacle of rock. More correctly; I was half-carried down the steps by the guards on either side of me, for they took the steps at a fast march and neither waited for me more told me when to expect a step. May a’time I pitched forward – with the thought that I had actually stepped off the edge of the path – only to be caught, roughly, by my guards.

After what seemed like a descent to the Courts of Death, we reached the small inner courtyard within the gate house and quickly passed through the gatehouse guardroom and into the large piazza beyond. In the early light of this day I had been brought to this piazza from the galleon that had carried me from dear Cha Tralae. It had been cold and empty then, but now I could hear about me the rumble of movement the shouts of greeting, the laughter, and the hum of conversations, all of which ceased as they caught sight of our strange procession. Even through the blackness of the hood that covered my head I could feel their eyes upon me.

After we made the far gates of the piazza, I am unsure of our course, though it seemed that we passed through several other courtyards, a number of gates and doorways, and climbed quite a few steps before reaching my quarters. Here the hood was removed and my conveying guards filed out without a word.

To my wonderment; I found myself standing in a finely furnished sitting room. Why, it was fine enough to be accorded a visiting envoy, and though I was that in name, I had fully expected to wait my execution in the dungeons. Attached to the sitting room I discovered a large sleeping room and lo! My sea chest and all its contents! I could not attribute this unexpected hospitality to anything said or done since my arrival in Ividish’fa. But weary from a long sleepless night and still weak from the ill effects of The Storm, I could only dumbly poke about my quarter a’bit before surrendering to the siren song of the sleeping platform, to which I swiftly retire, abandoning my woes and wonder for sleep.