The Blue Kingdom

When Enric reached the Holly Fountains, he struck a pose of raised chin and puffed chest. When the little order of Herjard’s dominion was banished, the once popular park where high society socialised during the holidays, turned into a shantytown where the law of the strongest prevailed amongst people striving to survive.

He entered the mouth of the beast with attentive eyes. Soldiers, whether from the winning or losing side, were the worst dangers lurking around every corner, and for anyone who didn't know what Enric was capable of, a boy dressed in the uniform of the Ersan private academy was a juicy prey. Furthermore, not only were the former men at arms a threat in that forgotten hole, but anyone else. From the youngest to the oldest, every living being was capable of crossing the line of legality to put a piece of bread in their mouth. Enric understood it well. He knew what it was like to be hungry. Feeling alone and helpless. But although his frozen heart could find a little pity for those unfortunate people broken by the war, his mission was much more important, and no one had the right to stand in his way.

After crossing a few dilapidated shanties, he had already become the target of a group of kids who wanted to rifle through his pockets, a young and malnourished prostitute who was followed by a pimp dubious intentions and a couple of ruffian bands who not only wanted to deprive him of his metal but also of any piece of clothing fitting their sizes.

The woman of the street was dismissed with a simple head shake and the kids with an authoritative shout and the well placed threat regarding broken necks. The gangs were different. They would not cower unless they were shown a demonstration of power.

As he reached the centre of a small square full of mud and unpleasant scents, Enric paused to unbutton his green uniform jacket and roll up his shirt sleeves. The sound of boots squeezing from behind revealed a trap in the form of a circle of men around. It was the first of the bands. The Red mice. The Silverknives, knowing the strict rules of the underworld, would wait their turn to skin another reckless person later.

When the trap was closed, Enric threw his uniform at one of the younger thugs. He smiled, truly believing his victim was giving him a tribute. While the thief rejoiced in his new outfit, his companions delighted in the ease with which their abuse was carried out. Meanwhile, Enric watched carefully in search of his rival. He didn't have to be the boss, who was a small but robust man holding a pole topped with hanging dead rats. He had to be the strongest, the meanest and most dangerous.

When he found him, Enric raised his palm and beckoned. The man answering to the challenge was a monster of astonishing size, almost unreal muscles and a face full of marks from countless battles. His footsteps, even on soft ground, echoed like thunder in the distance. His fingers, as thick as sausages, were still skilled, enough to play with a dagger flipping crazily between them. “I like your boots,” he said.

“They won't fit you, big boy,” Enric said. The giant motioned for a reply, but Enric didn't give him time. His last step put him in range. The first fist hit the liver to bend his hight enough so Enric could reach the neck. After punching the throat, he grabbed the collar of the shirt. The enormous body flew through the air like a flag flipping on a large pole and, with a landing as quick as the flight, the full mass of the giant sank deeply into the mud. Three more punches finished a man who was already defeated. One directly to the nose to prevent proper breathing, another to dislocate the shoulder so he could not use his good hand and the last to break the femur, leaving him unable to walk again.

While the red mice moved impatiently, whether out of stupefaction or anger, their boss drew a flint pistol. In the last years of war, the world ran dry of resources, and firearms that once filled the alleys of criminals were now in very short supply. Enric was faster than any man, but even so, an accurate shot was a death sentence even for him. Luckily, the piece of junk in the chief's hand was an antique. A weapon with a small delay between the hammer igniting the pan’s powder and the inner bag exploding.

Enric jumped into a run, charging towards a man who dropped the ceremonial rod to hold his gun with both hands. The weapon, moving side to side to hit a target approaching with serpentine strides, struggled to keep the aim. When the flint stone lowered, Enric crouched down in time, an impossible movement fit into an ephemeral instant; enough to let the lead pass over his head and hit a man over the other side of the square.

With a wild, precise leg raising to reach a chest, Enric put the chief of mice into the air, landing over many of his peers. Two daggers immediately retaliated from the sides, both losing their grip and spinning away after Enric's precise blows. The two unarmed men followed the footsteps of their boss and daggers, one to destroy the wooden wall of a shack and the other to land on a pile of rubbish.

With such compelling demonstration of inhuman strength and speed, the rest of the mice hesitated, and with the roar of a hellhound, Enric brought the doubts to a complete halt. "Who's next?" He shouted with his soul on fire. “You? Or is it you? I swear to the Maiden: The next one daring, dies!”

Within the calm after a brief but intense storm, Enric moved nimble, challenging all the eyes crossing his gaze. He stopped in front of the boy wearing his jacket and raised the palm. “That's mine,” he said. The thug's hands trembled while undressing and when the uniform was back to its true owner, and after reaching into his pocket, he tossed a quarter to the boy.

The young thief was about the same age as Enric, but unlike him, he was not a freak who developed the perfection of manhood too quickly, nor was he heartless enough to ignore fear. "Bring me to the Seven Chicks," Enric said, not waiting for any answer. The band disbanded and although most of them seemed keen to end any confrontation, Enric stomped away hiding a readiness to retaliate behind the arrogant calmness of who knows himself far too superior to be threatened any longer.

"How did you move so fast?" Mumbled the boy from behind. "How, how did you toss Iggro into the… and, and the gunshot, how did you-"

"Shut up," cut Enric. "Just guide me to the recruiting point. And do it in silence."

When the duo reached the hanging point of the Silverknives, faces turned towards sky and ground. A few steps further and without any gut-twisting feelings of warning, Enric paused to put back on his uniform and cleaned the mud from his boots with the edge of an old broken box. "My apologies, kid. The passion of the fight blurred my manners. Is that the Seven?" He said, pointing to the only building made of stone.

"Ya, sir, that's the place, can I go now?"

With the feeling of a blade crossing his guts, Enric reached for another coin and this time, left it gently on the boy's hand. "Sir? How old do you think I am?"

The thief shrugged and silently left. Enric waited, letting himself fall into corrosive thoughts. He was proud of himself. Of what he was and he'd become. Yet, the nature of his rushed existence troubled him, especially after being called 'sir' for the first time in his life.

As he wandered towards his destination, he exuded all the self-confidence from his gait. The Seven Chicks, a blurb of stone and wood barely holding up, was the only roof of gathering for the mercenary groups: The only remaining organisations with decent war proficiency after the sudden disbandment of Herjard's army. The tavern was frequented by recruiters and with them, there was always a string of youngsters eager to impress the former for a place in their crowded ranks. To reach there, a display of force was a must. But to join the best, as Vega always said, 'you need to demonstrate the proper skill at the correct moment'. “Where is the Woodpecker’s table?” he said to the closest drinker.

The mercenary, a short man with marked muscles under a tanned skin, turned to spare the left arm and leaned on his right over the bar counter. After a long and tedious look from head to toe, he released smoky words from a pipe puff straight to Enric’s nose. "Get out of ma'face, ink boy."

Ignoring the stench, Enric stepped forward, passing by tables adorned with the means to clarify who were the members sitting on them. From none uttered a word, but from all reached gazes of mistrust and misjudgement. When Enric found a cage with a red bird at the end of the room, he had to contain excitement so as not to speed up his pace.

The woodpeckers' table was in the corner, and none of the adjacent tables were occupied. In it sat two young men sharing the age of Enric's misleading body and in front of them, two recruiters: a wrinkled geezer with fancy clothes from the old times and a huge red islander who had a large bush of dreadlocks and an even bigger beard, both embellished with braids of glass and metal of all shapes and colours.

“The birds? Nay boy nay! That's a dead sentence!” said a man from behind. Enric stopped briefly to look over his shoulder at a plump sailor whose red nose made it clear he had too much to drink. "The colonies are a killing field, boy. Join the Kraken! There is a lot to rebuild and many to protect here! We can make good use of someone who brims with potential."

Enric reprised his pace to the corner, muttering a whisper filled with repulse. "I'm not a builder, and neither a protector."

“Ye, strike me as a schooner! Ha!” The man in dreadlocks yelled. “Fast and manoeuvrable. And yer friend will be strong and steady as a frigate in no time!”

“I told you that we don't want to go there.” One of the boys said. “That place is a meat grinder, I'm not dying for half a novel a week."

Just when Enric reached the height of the chairs, the old man slammed the table with a fist, shaking everything on top and triggering a strong puff of liquor’s stench. "We are the only ones with ties to the old Herjard, boy. Wanna make a name in the Empire? This is the place. Afraid of icy weather, deadly wonders and angry savages? Go cry yo’mama elsewhere, this is a man’s table!"

When the failed recruits stood up, disdainfully dragging their chairs, Enric took the opportunity to gain space between them. "I want to sign for the colonies."

The Red man's wooden-made teeth showed as his owner rested crossed hands over a bushy head. "What do we have here? A freshly released brick from the dry docks. I smell paint instead of salt, Addock."

The old man rummaged through a pile of papers, pretending to ignore Enric's presence while addressing directly to him. “In the colonies, the only command is for the ones who have earned it with blood and sweat. Academy kids who know everything about war but pee themselves when stepping in one have no rank there. We have only openings for private.

“Fourth of a Novel if they send you to Irama or Fagul, Half if you go to Agastar or the Blanco Archipelago. Food, clothes and shelter are provided. Added costs to be discounted from wages."

“I take any slot, as far as it is in the company under Capitan Vega," Enric said. Addock sank into his papers, whispering the name of the man who had fostered the proper training Enric needed to shine in the last battlefields of the world. Hiding his impatience, he followed the old man's finger, eager to find blank spots next to his mentor's. It was his only, last chance to prove his value. To prove he was a Masterpiece of war.

Old Addock huffed and deepened his sight even lower. "Wasn’t Vega in The Blanco, Meekel?"

The man with the dreadlocks lowered his arms to get into the puddle of papers as well. “Tribisso, mate! Tribisso!”

After a while, they both shared a look over a piece of paper they were both holding with care. "Vega is Field Marshall now. His troops are in Samardina." Addock said.

With eyes wide open, Meekel shook his head. "Boy, that place is one of the Hells. Few supplies, guerrilla warfare, freezing weather. But that’s not the worst: The locals have allied themselves with the ancient dwellers. Black magic, man! I tell'ya. They turn the old Herjard machines into sentient monsters, and dead compadres into walking corpses. Witchcraft!"

“You are the worst recruiter I've ever worked with!" Addock snapped. "Don't listen to the red islander's nonsense. It's a dangerous place, yes, but there's no such thing! I sign you as a mate of the Aquallion and you will join the ninth battalion at the east of the island in a month. Under Vega’s command as you want. The pay is two Silver crowns a week, everything included. Write here a name if you agree and-"

The two recruits who had stepped back tried to regain their places, but in the face of an immovable Enric, they only managed to shake the table and spill all the wine over the recruiting files. "Are you stupid or what?" shouted Addock.

"Two silvers? Why do you pay so much to this scoundrel?" said one of them.

"That's because freshies last an average of a month there," said Meekel. "So, we give wives and kids a little bit more to survive without husbands and fathers, aren't we a generous bunch, Addock?"

After Meekel's loud and annoying laughter, the two young men disbanded for a second and last time. "E- En…Rick, aye?" Addock said, too busy saving his files from the wine to give a dead stare over his colleague. "If my big-mouthed friend hasn't discouraged you yet, take back your contract and sign it before it paints red. Be aware; if you break the deal, you lose your head."

Enric returned to the paper where he had written his name and signed with an elegant, aggressive filigree, just as Vega had taught him. Meekel took it back, unable to hide hints of satisfaction and mischief. "Well, ink boy… I'm impressed. You are a brave ship indeed."

Addock rolled his eyes and moved away, tossing papers over the next table. "Time will tell if it is bravery or foolishness. As I see it now, he's just a nutshell sailing towards a storm he'd not seen yet."

Enric's heart pumped with unstoppable force. The aforementioned storm was an incoming challenge full of deadly dangers, but he was not intimidated. He was excited. Delighted to finally prove himself and to show everyone the value of that little bug from Ventfort no one gave a dime for.

If he dared to play Meekel's stupid game of comparing people to ships, he'd agree to be a freshly painted hull which had never sailed outside the bay. But if the Reddish man was right, it was only about that. He was not a brick. He was a fully rigged ship of the line. A warship designed to turn other vessels into wrecks. He was a man'o'war the world had never seen before and he couldn't wait any longer to prove it.