Merrick Carrow confidently stood at the prow of the Orian Dawn, staring out across the great sapphire expanse of the northern Perian Sea. Waves lapped at the side of the powerful, but elegant steel dreadnought, adding melody to steady bass hum of the massive steam engines that distantly thrummed beneath his feet.

The brisk wind into which the Dawn sailed was cold – and Carrow liked it. All along the Norvoldish coastal fjords, the star’s light unforgivingly shone through a notoriously clear sky, forcing warmth upon all and, especially, Merrick always thought, upon those who did not want it – people such as himself.

Merrick’s distaste for the heat had long been the subject of much prodding from those close to him:

…From his grandfather, who said he was born with a cold heart of iron (…this was a complement, he was told) – this was definitely untrue, Merrick knew… as a boy he had once naively tested the theory by hitting his own chest with a hammer… the experiment yielding less than pleasant results…

…From his childhood tutor, who had frequently complemented his cool, calm demeanor – which was somewhat true… although Merrick kept his external emotions tightly controlled, beneath the surface, a maelstrom of untamable emotion raged…

…And from his few, but close friends, who had playfully teased him for being so frigid and un-affecting with the young ladies who attended the Naval Academy’s semi-annual balls – which was true, much to Merrick’s chagrin.

However, the real reason for his distaste of the heat was much simpler: the thick wool uniforms which he had been made to wear ever since he was a boy – the uniforms of a Tamerynian Royal Navy officer.

And they had only gotten thicker.

Where once his uniform had been a relatively simple violet tunic with slim, gold stripes on its shoulders, now it had blossomed into a regal suit adorned with a forest of medals that was buried beneath a heavy ebony trench coat outfitted with grand epaulets: the uniform of a Royal Sea Marshal – the same one his father had worn.

Was it so heavy and hot on him? Merrick often wondered. He had never made it seem that way.

Regardless of his comfort, however, the costume was not one that he was about to take off. The military vestments he had worn since boyhood had now become as much a part of him as his own skin. Throughout his life, his uniform had served as armor, inspiration, and purpose. He wasn’t about to modify or remove it now – not for fear, not for doubt, and certainly not for heat.

But there were moments, infrequent but visceral, when he did uneasily ponder: Was there anything that lay beneath the clothes?

At this moment, it was a question he could easily discard, because Sea Marshal Merrick Benjamin Carrow, commander of the first fleet of the Tamerynian Royal Navy – the legendary “Violet Armada” – was on a mission, one ordered by the King, himself. This was no time for uncertainty.

“Ahoy! Passing the third Pillar now, sir!”

The clarion shout came from the Orian Dawn’s crow’s nest – the lookout spot perched at the highest point on the ship’s main mast. Merrick instantly knew the clear voice to be that of Crewman Isaiah Coffin’s, who, along with having the loudest pair of lungs, also boasted the most refined voice – amongst the Dawn’s crew of over a thousand men, Coffin was unanimously regarded as the best singer.

Along with an angelic voice, Coffin could also count amongst his noted traits a pair of hawkish eyes – eyes which not only had earned him his position at the ship’s crow’s nest, but also a monthly bonus to his crewman’s salary befitting the importance of his duty.

However, despite his inhuman ability to count a flock of seabirds a mile away, he still always failed to spot even the most obvious of bluffs in a hand of Seaman’s Folly when it stared at him across a mess hall table. As a result, the extra pay he garnered from his lookout role invariably disappeared quickly.

From the deck, Merrick gave a quick glance up to Coffin to signal that his call had been heard. The “third Pillar” to which Coffin referred was a tall rocky spire along the Norvoldish coast; one of seven distinct geological formations that served as way markers for seafarers travelling north.

The old druidic religion of Norvold regarded the Pillars as elemental guardians – great earthen golems that would spring to life to defend the land and her people in times of need. As yet, however, no one had ever seen such fantastic behavior from the stone “giants” outside of the crude illustrations preserved in ancient religious codexes.

In fact, much more recently, the only actions the people of Norvold had seen from their “Guardians” might charitably described as “bowing” or “sleeping.” In the past fifty years, two of them had fully or partially collapsed into the sea; a natural result of erosion from the sea spray that irrepressibly beat at the rocky coastline.

Evidentially, water was a much deadlier foe than any invading army.

Adherents to the old druidic customs had a ready explanation for the fall of their stone defenders: Where the faithful had once said that the guardians would stand forever, they now claimed that the collapse of the guardians was a direct result of the gods’ displeasure at the Norvoldish people’s adoption of the modern world. To bring back the guardians, they said, innovations like steam, steel, and electropower would have to go.

Merrick, a hardened skeptic, chuckled as he pondered the druids’ turnabout:

Apparently religion was more stubborn than solid stone.

As they passed the still-standing Pillar, Merrick playfully entertained the thought of testing the Orian Dawn’s new 12” smoothbore cannons on the “Guardian.” From his vantage point, at the prow of a 5,000-ton dreadnought carrying 160 guns, the stone giant didn’t look so tough.

Then he imagined the controversy such an act would cause and the diplomatic back and forth that would invariably ensue. He pictured the ranks of squabbling, feeble politicians and diplomats sitting across broad polished tables and sipping on cups of tea, each one bending over backward to apologize, equivocate, and explain. The thought made Merrick feel sick. He took one more look at the guardian then dropped the mischievous notion from his mind.

Another time, perhaps… when it wasn’t so damn hot.

© 2016 P. D. Nym