Chapter 6: Contact

Manewyn used to be free. He had travelled far with his clan, climbed the trees of great forests, explored the caves of mighty mountains, and ran barefoot with the other children in fields of grass that seemed to stretch for eternity. He was to be trained as a hunter when he came of age, the Keeper had said he had talent with a bow. Manewyn had been free, and happy.

Then the slavers came.

With sword and spell they laid waste to his clan. The fortunate fled or were killed outright, the unfortunate were put into chains. With iron clasped around his wrists and ankles, Manewyn had been dragged to the far-away lands of the Tevinter Imperium. There he was made to stand on a block, and was sold to the highest bidder. Two silver stags and fifty coppers had been the price of his freedom, the price of his life. Now, Manewyn could no longer remember what freedom felt like. His life was the stinking bowels of a ship, the sting of salt air, back breaking labor, and fierce beatings.

The man who had purchased Manewyn's life so cheaply was named Raker, a self-styled admiral who was in truth nothing more than pirate and a murderer. His small fleet of war galleys stalked the trade routes of the Waking Sea, and Raker had fancied himself the master of that narrow strip of water until the Ferelden navy arrived in force and disabused him of that notion. Raker and his fleet fled to the coasts of Antiva, to try their luck on the famed merchant ships that sailed from that country. There, they learned the hard way that the princes of Antiva were well invested in keeping their waters pirate-free. Only three ships remained of the twelve that sailed under Raker's colors when Manewyn first came into his service, and they found themselves drifting in the middle of the Amaranthine Ocean. Far away from land, from any shipping lanes, their prospects for the future all but faded away.

Not that any of that mattered to Manewyn. All that mattered to him at the moment was scrubbing the deck of the Red Hag. It would never be clean, it had never been clean in all the years Manewyn had been on the thrice-cursed vessel, but he scrubbed vigorously nonetheless. The beatings would come eventually, but Manewyn would not give the crew any excuse. They were already angry, and getting angrier. They had not been paid in weeks, food was running low, but the rum was still plentiful. Violence was becoming more and more likely as the men filled their empty stomachs with the potent liquor. Before they turned on each other, they would vent their fury on Manewyn and the other slaves. That didn't matter to him anymore either, he only hoped that the next beating he received would be the one to finally put him out of his misery.

"Sails on the horizon! Ship off the bow!" The lookout's cry sent a shock of energy through the loafing sailors. They ran to the rails and leaned over the edge to try and get a look. Manewyn didn't move, he remained on his hands and knees, dutifully scrubbing away.

"There! I see her!"

"Andraste's ass, she's a big one! Almost the size of one of them qunari dreadnaughts."

"Aye, but those dreadnaughts got no sails."

"That's a warship to be sure, can you make out the banner?"

"What's a warship doing out this far anyway?"

Manewyn's curiosity got the better of him, and he slinked silently to an open spot on the rail. The crewmen were so preoccupied that no one noticed him. Sure enough, on the horizon was the outline of a ship. It was bigger than any Manewyn had ever seen before, its sails a pure white that seemed to reflect the sun.

"Move aside!" Raker's voice boomed from behind him. Manewyn ducked his head and scurried out of the way as the barrel-chested captain pushed his way to the front of the press and raised a looking glass to his eye. After a moment he gave a long whistle.

"That is one impressive looking piece of meat," he said.

"What banner she flying?" asked his first mate, a rugged Free-Marcher named Boyle.

"Never seen it before," Raker said, "Looks like a white dragon on a red field." Boyle made a face and scratched at the stubble on his cheek. Raker continued staring at the ship for a few moments longer before lowering the looking glass and spitting into the water. "Screw it," he said, "Bring us about, we're going to take her!" A cheer went up from the crew as they stumbled away from the rail to their stations. Only Boyle remained by Raker, a frown on his face.

"That's a warship out there, Captain," he protested.

"Aye," Raker replied, "And there's three of us and one of them. We're smaller, faster, we can pick her apart if it takes all day."

"There's likely three hundred men or more on a ship that size!" Boyle said. Raker whirled on him with a snarl.

"That's three hundred suits of armor and weapons we can sell," he sneered, "And whatever cargo they're carrying to boot. You wanna get paid or not?" Before Boyle could answer, the lookout gave another cry.

"She's turning about, making straight for us!" Manewyn risked a look over the side, and indeed the mighty craft had turned toward them and was sailing straight as an arrow. Fast, faster than a ship that size had any right to be. A horn blared three distinct notes that carried on the wind. They were far too loud to be meant as a signal to the ship's own crew, but there were no other vessels in sight besides Raker's trio of war galleys. Who could they be signaling?

"That settles it then," Raker chuckled, "Cocky little buggers be wanting a fight." He turned and headed toward the ship's rudder, pushing Manewyn aside as he went. "Out of the way, knife ear!" he barked. Manewyn was swift to obey. He found a corner and curled up in it as around him men pulled at ropes and armed themselves. Minutes ticked by as the ships sped toward each other. Manewyn kept his head wedged firmly between his knees until an ear-splitting roar tore through the sky. Manewyn looked up to see every single man of the crew frozen in place, staring skyward.

"Dragon!" one of the men finally screamed. The shout snapped the others out of their trance and bedlam broke loose.

"Turn around! Turn us around!" Manewyn heard Raker shouting. Men were falling over each other, pulling at the ropes, others grabbing longbows and crossbows as still others struggled to turn the galley's ballistae skyward. Manewyn stood and looked up just in time to see the massive beast soar overhead. Arrows and bolts bounced harmlessly off its scales as it turned. The dragon roared its fury, red rose in its throat, and Manewyn instinctively covered his head as the beast belched a massive ball of fire. He looked up in time to see the flaming mass crash into one of the other ships with a blinding explosion that threw Manewyn off his feet. The effect was instantaneous, the destruction absolute. Where a moment before there had been a ship bristling with men and weapons, there was now only burning slag slipping beneath the waves.

Whatever courage the men of the Red Hag possessed abandoned them. Most dropped their weapons and many began flinging themselves overboard as the dragon made another pass. This time it sprayed a single jet of flame from its maw that engulfed the third ship in Raker's fleet. It was just close enough that Manewyn could see the thrashing of burning bodies as they died. He stood transfixed, as if in a dream. A smile slowly spread across his face and a maniacal laughter burst from his lips. Better to die by dragon fire than by the fists of these savages who had stolen his life from him. Better still to know they would die as well in terror and pain.

Manewyn looked down at the deck and spied a short sword that had been dropped by some sailor. He picked it up, stepped in front of the first crewman he saw, and rammed the blade into his gut. Blood gurgled from the man's mouth, and years of pent up anger, sorrow, and fear spilled out of Manewyn in the form of a blood-curdling scream as he looked into the pirate's dying eyes. The thug slid down to his knees and collapsed face first onto the deck. Manewyn stared at the dead body, and the ecstasy of what he had done swelled over him.

Another roar snapped him out of his reverie, but it was not the roar of the dragon. It was the roar of hundreds of men. Manewyn looked and saw the warship he had completely forgotten about, so close he could make out individual helmeted heads and the spikes on its gleaming, bronze-plated prow. Arrows fell about him like rain as the warship burrowed forward, not stopping, not slowing, not preparing to board. Manewyn looked at it curiously, why…

The bronze-plated prow.

The deck lurched under Manewyn's feet as the warship tore through the Red Hag like a knife through paper. He saw the deck, the sky, and then the deck again as he flew head over heels through the air. The ocean surface felt like solid rock as he slammed into it and all the breath was forced from his body. Manewyn gasped in pain and his mouth filled with water as some invisible force tugged violently at his feet. He looked up at the sun one last time before the ocean swallowed him, and smiled.

He was free.