18th of Fall, 511 AV
“Go away,” Ulric snarled. Not that it meant anything to the gannet. The gray, long-beaked seabird just gave a hork and hopped off the rock, where it stared at him curiously. That was the last straw. “Don’t make me reach for the net.” Through his words were laced with menace, the gannet just horked and angled its head to the side. Ulric felt his cracked lips curl into a grin. “Good bird,” he said, then reached into his pocket so he could fling over a crust of stale bread. The gannet’s long, sinuous neck thrust out, plucking the morsel from the air. Ulric watched, fascinated, as the bulge moved down, finally vanishing into the bird’s stomach. He gave a sudden chuckle. “You’re a greedy slut, aren’t you?”
“Win adubf wefo fjweado adubfub,” growled the Gasvik, leaning back on its broad, scaled back.
“You’re just jealous,” Ulric grunted, regarding his friend, servant, and relic through dark, smoldering eyes. Desank just snorted, went back to sharpening his tusks. That meant he was bored. That, or just that he enjoyed having sharp tusks. I wish I had tusks.
“Fain no aodn ubf oadn.”
“Don’t you worry,” Ulric gave a shrug, reaching for one of the throwing axes thrust into his belt. “Don’t you know what happens to greedy sluts? They get what they deserve.” He brought the squat, heavy weapon back over his shoulder, then hurled it at the gannet, watched as it struck with a spray of sand. He cursed, for the gannet was unscathed, wings beating at the air as it horked wildly, ungainly flight carrying it back to the rocks. Not so fast, he frowned, flung over another crust. He was lucky that birds were easy to fool. The gannet swiftly forgot that mad retreat, took a short hop toward the dry crust, then another.
Ulric didn’t move, just held the other throwing axe poised over his shoulder, waiting. The moments flowed together, but soon the bird was back in front of him, head jerking up cheekily as it pecked at the crust. He met the dark, beady eyes for a moment, baring his teeth in a grin. “Got you,” he growled, and flung the axe. The curved head stuck the bird just below the neck, making feathers burst over the dawn, scant threads of crimson lashing across the sands. There was a weak hork, and then his boot stamped down, put the bird out of its misery. “Not so greedy now, are you?”
Taking up his throwing axes, he wiped them down with a greasy-specked rag, then placed them aside. He undid the buckle on his worn belt, unlaced his trousers, jerked the tunic over his head so that he was naked but for the bands of bronze that encircled his brawny biceps, folding the garments by his worn boots, the dented edge of his shield. “Don’t you look at my fruits,” he snarled at the Gasvik, reaching into the tangle of nets at his feet. He draped a pair over his left arm, the hanks of rope lashed together in places, and throwing the third over his shoulder, he began to march into the sea. He flinched as the turgid waters closed around his thighs, then fruits, prickles rising on his skin, nets weighted down by the water. The briny scent of the sea was in his nose, the crash of the surf in his ears. He grinned.
When the waves began to lap around his chest, he began to swim. He kicked with his legs, flailed with his arms, managing a sort of awkward sidestroke that brought him further out into wine-dark waters. There was a surge of a breaker, frigid waters buffeting at his chest, hindering his progress. He brought a foot down, felt it scrape against a bed of sand, slimy kelp, and broken shells, and frowned. He needed to be further out. There was a broad rock poking from the sea, dark and gleaming with kelp, the lower sides encrusted with barnacles and mollusks. He made for it, heart pounding from the shock of the cold water, legs thrashing madly. Then he was close enough to reach out, drag himself onto the surface. The nets were soaked and heavy, the lead weights bearing them down, but he jerked them up with a grunt, muscles straining from the effort.
Fishing. For now, he was just a fisherman.
Ulric’s deftly separated the coils of nets, and then, carrying one in each hand, made his way to the spur of the rock. There was a crevice at that end, he noted with a grin. He lashed the first to a hump of the reef, spots of coral showing at the base, and then did the same with the other net, only on the other side. He let them slide down, until only the ropes were perceptible over the dark, gentle swell of the waves.
Making sure they were secure, he went back to where he’d left the other net, wrapped the thick cord around his wrist a few times. He took a firm grip on the tarry webbing, breaking it into sections, then opened them slightly. Then he grunted, turning his upper body away, then spun back around, flinging the net into the dark waters. The folds spread out as they descended to strike the surface with a slash, the tiny weights making the net sink quickly, until the leading cord went taut against his wrist. Then he hauled the net back to the surface, corded muscles straining, his labors punctuated by motley grunts and curses, until he beheld his silvery catch writhing against the heavy, sodden cords. He threw the larger fish onto the algae-slick rocks, deftly crushing their heads under his heel, and threw the tiny back into the dark waters. Laviku, do you see my mercy?
Ulric reached for the net again, a grin coming over his face, and flung it back into the breakers.
There was something calming about fishing that always made him appreciate the simple things in life, from the scraping of rope across his palms to the warmth of the sun on his back. He kept casting the net, hauling fish from the seas. He began to whistle as he bent, heaved, and knelt over his catch. The net wasn’t always full, nor was it often empty. The currents that ringed the spur of rocks were writhing with slender, slippery bodies, not to mention the rare dark, hooked fin far out to sea.
The heap of fish rose slowly, so that when the sun had just passed its zenith, he put down the net, sprawling out on the baking rocks for a nap. He dreamed of a shack on the strand, warm arms winding around his back, a dingy moored in the lee of a dock with a tapering mast pointing at a pewter-gray sky.