The Great War: Chapter 8
In the bowels of the great ship
Mathew is led down a long wooden hallway, lit by bright white orbs attached to the walls on either side. There are no doors in this hallway aside from one, which is small and only able to fit one being through at a time.
Behind him is a line of sailors, just like himself, all carrying a single sleeping blanket, a pillow, and a small sack of personal items.
And in front of him is a Guardian, up close and personal. While there were Guardians on Gardall, he’s never been this close to one before. His mother always told him to keep his distance because of his magic. Their armor radiates a soft warmth that tickles his skin.
The Guardian stops at the single small door and turns to face the line of sailors behind them. Their face is hidden by a large helmet, casting their eyes and nose in dark shadow. Only their mouth can be seen, which seems to be permanently set into a stony frown.
“In here, pirate,” the Guardian spits at Mathew, waving to the door sharply. Mathew scowls back in confusion. He’s not a pirate.
He opens the single door and steps inside. The room he enters is large, spanning the whole hallway in length and reaching to the back of the ship in depth, he assumes. Sleeping blankets carpet the floor, and many sailors mill about, chatting in small groups or sitting on their blankets and fiddling with their things.
Mathew drifts deeper into the room, followed by his equally-speechless companions. The areas farthest from the room’s entrance have been taken already, leaving much of the middle open for the taking. And with how many sailors were in his group, Mathew figures that they’re not going to be the last beings to be put in here.
His heart begins to pound in his chest as realization sets in, that this is going to be his sleeping quarters with Spirits-know-how-many-beings, staying in close quarters with one another. He’s only gotten this far from luck - he was able to write off his cold body temperature to poor circulation, and he was just nearly able to keep his magic in check when he went through the Sailor-Magic Assessment the other cycle - but now he’ll be surrounded by sailors on all sides all cycle with no private relief. What if some being gets suspicious and reports him to the Guardians? What if he accidentally uses his magic?
He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. You’ve worked hard to be here, Mathew. No being will catch you if you keep your head down.
He finds a place on the floor to place his blanket and sets about making himself as comfortable on his new bed as he can. He doubts he’ll get much rest on the stiff wooden floor, if he can even make himself comfortable to begin with. And theft is always something to consider as well.
He peers into his small sack. It contains some extra clothes, a set of playing cards, a crystal necklace from his mother from when he was younger, and a studded scabbard from his father as a parting gift, which he intends to wear. It’s not much, but it’s all he could take with him. He can’t use his magic on his bag to keep it closed or frozen to the floorboards to prevent it from being stolen, or else it’d give him away. But he can’t simply stay awake each night to keep an eye on it, either.
He sits by himself as more and more sailors are brought into the room, each taking stock of the available floor space that is quickly disappearing. Some men place their blankets around Mathew before wandering off.
In the room, time has no meaning.
Somewhere in the ship, a bell rings, drowning out any and all conversation in an instant, and the door is thrown open. A small group of Guardians file into the sleeping quarters, standing at attention on either side of the room. Eventually, a Guardian enters with a plain cape, a golden star on their breastplate glowing brighter than his armor, with three lines in its center.
“Good evening, sailors,” the Guardian speaks, his voice filling the room with ease. Mathew can’t help but raise his eyebrows as he turns his attention away from his bag. When he first steps aboard, it had been midcycle.
“I am the Three-Star Guardian and High Naval Commander of Asandra,” the High Naval Commander continues proudly. “I welcome all of you to the fleet’s first ever Island Destroyer.”
Mathew’s jaw clenches. The ship, on the outside, is massive, and inside is almost like trying to navigate a maze. It’s almost four times as large as a regular combat vessel, and twice as tall. Towards the bottom, the cannon hatches were far too large to be for regular-sized cannons, unless, he had figured, that multiple cannons would fire from one spot at a time. Now he knows the truth.
A ship designed to destroy islands. The cannons below must be huge, and the cannonballs even bigger.
“The cannons aboard this ship contain enough firepower to sink smaller islands. They are the fleet’s primary targets. No doubt many of you know that the wizards are scattered across many of these settlement islands. Asandra has ordered that these settlements are to be razed.”
Silence. Dead silence.
A second Guardian steps forward, possibly a second-in-command or the captain of the ship. “Each settlement will be pillaged and burned to preserve valuables, then sunk with the cannons below deck. Further details will be shared once we set sail from harbor…”
Mathew turns away from the Guardians and stares deep into the void of his sack, where his father’s scabbard glints back at him.
Stars guide me through this.
Large cannons are anchored in position, their cold black iron bodies towering over all. A single Guardian leads the way down the center of the cannon hold, sailors gawking at the supersized monsters they’ll have to man.
Along the ceiling of the hold is a track that leads to each cannon’s upturned mouths, ropes hanging down lazily. One end of each rope is tied to a small metal wall, and the other end is tied near the front of barrel of each cannon.
At the very end of the hold is a rack of spheres. Each metal cannonball is twice Mathew’s own height, and probably denser than any object ten men can just barely lift.
“Each cannonball rack is fitting with a pulley system that will offer assistance in moving them to the track above,” the Guardian speaks, gesturing upwards to the tracks above. “The ropes attached to each cannon pull on the sliders on the track, which help to direct the cannonballs into empty cannons. The cannons lower into position once they contain a cannonball, and rise after firing.”
The Guardian takes the small group of sailors-soon-to-be-pirates between the cannonball racks and even farther back into the hold, where they come upon heaps of cloth bags stamped with large black triangles. Sparkpowder.
The Guardian places a hand on one of the sparkpowder bags and continues, “Each cannon will require one full bag of sparkpowder to launch one of these cannonballs a short distance. However, fully expect to be using two or three full bags per cannon at a time. These must be loaded before the cannonball. There are ladders beside each cannon to help with loading.”
“At least it’s almost like working a regular cannon,” one sailor comments aloud.
“This amount of powder can sink this entire ship!” Mathew overhears a different hushed conversation.
Mathew doesn’t know if he should be excited to work with the oversized cannons, or worried. After all, a barrage from these cannons contain enough power to raze small islands. And if something goes horribly wrong, from mishandling a cannonball to accidentally igniting the sparkpowder, or even possibly falling into the cannon itself and getting crushed, some of these sailors are going to injure themselves or even die.
Working the cannons will be dangerous, but pillaging the islands isn’t much of a safer alternative. And it’s not like he can help with the sails, as he’s not manned a ship beyond an imaginary one using the advice his father gave to him on Gardall. All he has going for him on this ship is his physical strength and fighting prowess. Though nothing he’ll end up doing on this ship will be risk-free regardless.
But he wanted to be here in the first place, and now here he is. He couldn’t back out the moment he laid eyes on the beauty of the Island Destroyer. It could be worse. He could have been drafted to fight on the front line, a certain way to die for sure. He just needs to do what he’s told to do, and he’ll make it out the other side in one piece. Then he can go back to his father and prove to him that he’s not some lowly wizard like his mother and siblings.
Yes.
No matter what job he’s given, he just needs to survive until the very end.