Page 3 of The Warrior and the Monk

Wilder blinked, the realization sinking in. Did his name really matter to them? And why hadn’t the warrior who had taken him explained it already? But this was a trade, after all. If he went with them, they would leave the rest of the monastery’s inhabitants unharmed—or so Brother Ellion had claimed. It wouldn’t do to make things worse by angering them.

Sighing, Wilder muttered, "Wilder."

"Wild-er," she repeated. She grinned and jabbed the warrior's broad back, as if introducing him. "Anders."

Anders could not seem to meet Wilder's eyes. The tension between them hung in the salty air, thick and awkward, as if the very weight of what was happening pressed down on both of them. Wilder watched as the warrior bent down to help place the baskets, the clinking of shells and the rustling of cloth punctuating the silence. His movements were stiff, mechanical, like he was deliberately focusing on anything other than the fact that Wilder was about to be taken away—away from the monastery, away from everything he had ever known.

Once the baskets were secured in the small, weather-beaten boat, Anders straightened. His dark eyes flickered toward Wilder, but they never made it higher than his knees. It was as if the warrior couldn't bear to see the fear or confusion that musthave been etched across Wilder’s face. Maybe there was shame there, hidden beneath his stoic facade.

Without a word, Anders extended his hand, offering it as an awkward gesture of assistance. His palm was rough, calloused from years of sword-fighting and the harsh life of the sea. Wilder stared at the hand for a moment, feeling a surge of resentment and helplessness. He didn’t want to accept it, but there was little choice now. He was outnumbered, trapped. With a resigned sigh, he placed his trembling hand into Anders' and let the warrior hoist him into the boat.

The wood creaked underfoot as Wilder settled into his cramped seat, his legs pressed tightly against the rough edges of the boat. It was a tight fit, far too small for its new passengers. Three warriors, three stolen baskets of clams, and now Wilder, the stolen novice—he wondered what use he would have among them. The others clambered in after him, their armor clanging and jostling as they squeezed themselves into the tiny vessel. Wilder could feel the weight of their bodies pressing against him, each breath they took rattling through the confined space like a gust of wind in a narrow alley.

He shifted uncomfortably, trying to make room for himself among the tangled mess of limbs and baskets. The baskets, filled with their ill-gotten gains from the beach, lay haphazardly between them, their contents spilling slightly over the sides—wet sand, shimmering shells, and small fish glistening in the fading light. Wilder looked at them and felt a strange surge of anger. It wasn’t just the clams, the baskets, or even the fact that they had taken him. It was everything. These people had come from nowhere and stolen from his life, turned it upside down, all without a word.

The smallest warrior, the woman who had examined Wilder like livestock earlier, grinned and gave a sharp whistle as she grabbed an oar. She shot a mocking glance in Wilder’sdirection, clearly pleased with how the day had gone for her and her comrades. She seemed to be enjoying the chaos she had caused, while Wilder was just trying to breathe, trying to grasp the enormity of the situation. His whole body felt numb, his thoughts scattered.

Anders, on the other hand, remained silent. He sat across from Wilder, his back to the prow of the boat, staring down at his hands as they tightened and relaxed on the oar. His face was tense, his brow furrowed in a way that suggested something was troubling him. Wilder wondered what he was thinking, but there was no point in asking—there was a barrier of language and silence between them, a gulf as wide as the sea that stretched out before them.

As the oars dipped into the water and the boat began to move, Wilder felt a sickening lurch in his stomach. The monastery, his home, grew smaller and smaller in the distance. Its stone walls, once a symbol of safety and routine, now seemed fragile and far away. The wind picked up, cold and biting, whipping through his hair and stinging his eyes. He shivered, though whether from the cold or the fear, he couldn’t be sure.

The woman beside him rowed with steady, practiced strokes, her movements smooth and efficient, while the third warrior leaned back, casually resting his arms over the side of the boat, watching the horizon as if nothing unusual had happened. Wilder could feel their camaraderie, the ease with which they navigated the sea and the strange, twisted code they seemed to follow. He was the outsider here, an unwilling participant in whatever this "trade" was.

As they drifted farther from shore, Wilder felt a hollow ache in his chest. He couldn’t shake the image of Brother Ellion, standing on the beach, his face a mask of smug righteousness. The memory of the monk’s betrayal burned in Wilder's mind—how easily he had offered him up, how little regard he had shownfor Wilder's life. It was a sacrifice, he had said, a bargain to keep the monastery safe. But was that truly it? Or had there been something darker at play, a way to rid himself of a novice who never quite fit in, a young man who questioned more than he should have?

The water lapped against the sides of the boat, a rhythmic, almost soothing sound, but Wilder couldn’t relax. He hugged his knees to his chest, trying to make himself as small as possible, all the while wondering what fate awaited him at the hands of these strangers. What did they want from him? And why had they traded a sword—an item of clear value—for a novice monk?

A sudden wave splashed over the side of the boat, drenching his robes and startling him from his thoughts. The woman let out a bark of laughter, shaking her head as she continued to row. Wilder closed his eyes, trying to steady his breathing, trying to calm the storm of panic that roared inside him.

The longship loomed ahead, its black hull cutting through the waves like a predator stalking its prey. As they approached, the carved figurehead—now unmistakably a dragon, its wooden eyes gleaming in the fading light—seemed to watch them, its mouth open in a permanent snarl. It was an omen, Wilder thought, a grim symbol of what lay ahead. Whatever awaited him aboard that ship, it would change his life forever. And there was no turning back now.

There were far more people onboard the ship than Wilder had realized. As the small boat neared, the figures above came into clearer view: sailors, warriors, men and women alike, all peering over the edge of the ship. Their eyes locked onto Wilder, some of them waving to their comrades, others pointing and whispering, grinning as though his arrival was the most entertaining spectacle they’d seen in days.

It was a cruel, mocking curiosity, the kind reserved for something that had been won or captured. And Wilder knew, with a sinking feeling, that he was the object of that attention. They weren’t laughing with him; they were laughing at him. He was no longer a novice of the monastery. Now, he was something else entirely—an outsider, a prisoner, or worse, a plaything for their amusement.

A sailor above tossed down a rope ladder, which flopped against the side of the ship like a snake. The first order of business was passing up the baskets of clams, the very ones they had stolen from the beach. The clams were received with eager hands and approving nods, their worth evident in the smiles of the crew. Then, the warrior who had spoken to him before—the one who had told him Anders’s name—began his ascent up the ladder with a quick, practiced agility that belied his size.

The boat, now significantly lighter, swayed precariously on the waves. Wilder yelped, gripping the wooden sides as the boat tilted. He wasn’t used to the unpredictable movement of the sea, and a wave of nausea churned in his gut. Before he could make any attempt to climb up on his own, Anders was there, lifting him with alarming ease, as if he weighed no more than the baskets of clams they had just hauled up.

Wilder scrambled up the rope ladder as quickly as he could, his damp robes sticking to his legs and hindering his movements. He all but tumbled over the edge of the ship, landing on the hard deck with a graceless thud. The salty sea air bit at his skin, chilling him through to the bone. He struggled to his feet, trying to maintain some semblance of composure, but his legs trembled beneath him, not just from the cold but from the overwhelming fear of what was to come.

Dozens of eyes were on him now—grizzled sailors, their hair tangled from the sea wind, their faces weathered from years on the ocean. Some of them whispered to each other, no doubtexchanging jokes at his expense, while others stared at him openly, their expressions unreadable but filled with a palpable curiosity. He could feel the heat rising in his cheeks, but he forced himself to stand tall, though every muscle in his body screamed for him to retreat, to hide.

The ship rocked with the tide, the constant sway disorienting him. Wilder stood there, paralyzed by uncertainty. What was he supposed to do now? Where was he supposed to go? He had no idea what was expected of him, and every passing second felt like an eternity.

Anders climbed over the side of the ship with ease, his movements fluid and confident. He made his way over to Wilder without a word, placing a strong hand on his shoulder. The gesture wasn’t harsh, but it wasn’t comforting either—it was simply a way to guide him. Wilder flinched slightly but followed, allowing himself to be led to the center of the ship.

There, in the belly of the vessel, was where they kept the animals and their loot. Wilder’s stomach turned at the sight of it all—the stolen goods piled carelessly, the cages where animals clucked and bleated, terrified and helpless. It dawned on him then with a sickening clarity: he, too, was a part of this hoard. A piece of their spoils, to be kept, bartered, or sold as they saw fit. Which category did he fall into, he wondered—loot or livestock?

With as much dignity as he could muster, Wilder sat among the stolen goods. He tried to arrange his robes to appear composed, but they were too damp and heavy. A scrawny hen pecked at the hem of his robe, then, with surprising boldness, hopped into his lap. Wilder blinked down at the creature in disbelief but soon found himself clutching it to his chest, holding it like a lifeline. The warmth of the hen was the only comfort he had in this strange and hostile place.

One of the sailors—an older man with a grizzled beard—said something in their unfamiliar tongue. His tone was light,and the words must have been some sort of joke, because it prompted an uproar of laughter from the others. Wilder felt his face burn in shame, though he hadn’t the faintest idea what the joke was. Was it about him? His awkwardness? His fear?

But whatever mirth the men had found in the joke vanished almost immediately when Anders growled—an actual growl, low and menacing. Wilder hadn’t expected that sound from him, and neither had the rest of the crew, it seemed. Their laughter died in their throats, and they exchanged uneasy glances.

Wilder looked up at Anders in confusion. What had the sailor said to provoke that reaction? Why had Anders come to his defense? Or was it something else entirely? He didn’t know how to read this man, his captor, his… protector?

The boat rocked again, the gentle sway of the waves now feeling more sinister. Wilder’s grip tightened on the hen in his lap. He didn’t know where they were taking him or what his fate would be aboard this strange ship. But one thing was certain: whatever lay ahead, he was completely at their mercy. And that realization settled over him like a cold, wet shroud.

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