The Saga of Red Braid
“...And that, me laddies, is how the Kraken fell to the magnificent Captain Eide, under whom I proudly served as cabin boy.”
Not a few jaws were agape at the tale their captain, who went by the moniker of “the Red Braid”, had told, but there were also a few scoffers. “Captain Eide,” one of these unworthies unwisely guffawed. “Tales o’ her be no more true than those o’ the Kraken itself, says I.”
The whole table burst into laughter, save the Red Braid. He merely sat with a patronizing smile on his face until the mirth subsided. “I’faith, ’twould depend upon who’s doing the telling, says I.”
“And it seems to me, Mister Reynir” a stentorian voice spat out from behind him, “that your telling has grown somewhat lacking, says Eide.”
The first words made everyone at the table jump, again save Reynir. By the end of her statement, all eyes were fixed on the tall, proud form looming up behind their captain.
“Tis most woeful, my Captain,” the Red Braid answered calmly, “that the tales I have to share of your adventures are yet so outlandish that I must needs omit the half of what I saw, lest none credit them at all.” He gestured at the motley assemblage seated at the table. “My Gentlemen of Fortune, I give ye Sigrun Eide, the woman who slew the Kraken with a stirring rod.”
One look at the woman standing behind their captain was enough to quell any doubts they might have had about his veracity.
“You’ve been babbling my adventures hither and yon,” Captain Eide said. “Now tell me a tale of your own, featuring the mighty Captain Red Braid.”
The Red Braid smiled. “Very well, my Captain,” he answered.
Reynir had been in command of the Túnfiskurinn for a few scant weeks when he ran into trouble. They weren’t supposed to rendezvous with the Sea-Lynx and the Drakeld, Emil’s command, for another month, so Reynir was on his own this time.
Not that it would have mattered so much; the trouble was a French squadron out for the blood of Ása Hardardóttir, Túnfiskurinn’s former captain. That Ása was now resting at the bottom of the sea meant less than nothing to them.
Now, the Túnfiskurinn was a fine ship, but the French had no less than five men-o-war in their squadron, so running was really their only option. It still grated, both on Reynir and his men.
Of course, no one can run forever; turning and fighting had to be part of the plan, and so it was.
The French squadron chased them into a harbor as night fell, the French wisely (or so they thought) standing off in a blockade that would eventually force the pirates out in a battle they couldn’t hope to win. The Red Braid had a different plan.
Under cover of darkness, the boarding parties got under way, and before dawn broke, the French squadron had been taken, though not without loss.
The most annoying thing about the whole affair was how little loot was to be had. Aside from the ships themselves, the affair yielded more or less nothing of value: no gold, no objets d’art, nor anything else for a nice spree. But still, taking out a full squadron of men-o-war so soon in his captaincy was a major feather in Reynir’s cap.
“...And that was just the beginning,” Reynir concluded. Every eye at the table had been fixed on him for some time now, the senior crewmen nodding as they recalled his tale. “Not that Captain Eide stuck around to hear more.”
“She’s gone! ... Where did she go? ... How on earth did she get away without us seeing?” The voices mingled in drunken cacophony.
“Well, me laddies, as to Captain Eide...” the Red Braid paused significantly, “...she died a good three years ago. Helped plant her meself, I did.”
Not a few of the crew crossed themselves, or made other gestures meant to ward off evil. The Red Braid snorted. As though any of that would avail them against Captain Eide’s wrath.
A few round of drinks and a few more tall tales later, Reynir finally rose, leading his now thoroughly inebriated men off to their waiting ship...
