Turn of the Tides
26 Jun 2025 - Transcribed by Paul TurnerKing Goliant scratched at his patchy beard, as he did often when he was thinking. Also when he was drinking, riding, between shots of his bow, in his sleep, and when trying to sire an heir. When one hand was free, his fingers inevitably found their way to his face. He kept his nails short to prevent the bleeding he experienced during the first year of his reign over the Fingered Isles.
“That damnable witch!” He would often shout. It had become a tic, something he even shouted as a cheer on his last birthday by accident.
Of course, everyone in his small kingdom of fishermen knew the tale. Captain Goliant had rode in with a fleet of ships, barbarous pirates from the east who regularly raided the isles. Every thirteen years or so, the raids seemed to occur like puberty. He overtook each meager garrison within a day, killing several distant cousins from his homelands in the process. Then he finally took the throne, relieving a thankful population of peasants ready for some semblance of normalcy to return to their lives. On this day of ascension, after stabbing a half-brother twice removed, Goliant encountered the Queen. She was a sorceress of the dunes of the beach. This Sand Witch cursed him that day. Her fine cloak billowed, and she raised her voice to a tenor both beautiful and terrifying.
“Usurper! Take your throne, but like all that crawl out from the sea, let you wear the shame of your deeds! Your beard shall be replaced by pubes of the scratchiest, most wiry, and stray variety! May your balls be reduced to-”
The Sand Witch’s curse was cut short by her former advisor, a man of thin frame with sallow eyes. Craibe, as he was known in the sea-salt castle, had chosen the winning side by covering her mouth as he restrained her. From there, the witch was put in irons and sent to the Tide Dungeons far below the main gate of the castle. A victory for Goliant, with only one itchy drawback.
The mottled moon hung heavy in the sky, raising the tides and ensuring a stronger yield for the fisherman and their crab traps in the morning. King Goliant sighed and scratched his beard as he peered from his bedroom chamber to the seas below as the waves crashed into his lands. He muttered the mantra to himself, damning the witch while he ruminated.
He had just turned forty on the previous moon. Back home, he would be considered a wizened elder. Here though, he lorded over men and women nearly twice his age. The truth of it soured his victory in taking the Fingered Isles all those years ago. Aye, he was king, but he had little hope of keeping it with the populace which remained. A knock interrupted his downward spiral.
“Come,” he called.
The oak door rattled open, creaking against hinges rusted from the salty air. Craibe, Goliant’s advisor, glided inside. Despite the hour, he still wore his official vestments made of simple cloth with chitinous patterns woven into the sleeves. He pushed back his hood, revealing a balding head of white hair cut close to his scalp. He smiled grimly, as was his fashion, and addressed his king.
“Sire, I bring news from the Urchin Coast. They send word that more ink is required for their stores. It seems Wyland and his flock did not receive the full shipment from our last envoy.”
“And you believe him?”
“You are wise to question him, my lord. However, my sources show the Mega Monastery in fact did not receive the full shipment of our fine inks.”
“Craibe, I worry about these sources of yours.”
“Worry not, my lord. There was other evidence.”
King Goliant waited for Craibe to continue, his curiosity and anger growing in tandem. Just before he raised his voice, he noted Craibe looking at him with worry. Goliant had been feverishly scratching his face with both hands. Sheepishly, he lowered them and bade Craibe to continue.
Craibe clapped his hands, and two guards roughly the same age as Goliant carried in a fisherman. They held him up by his underarms.
“What news do you bring, my loyal subject?” Said Goliant.
The two guards released the fisherman, who promptly collapsed to the floor in a heap. There was an arrow sunken into his back, with a parchment tied around its shaft. The blood of the fisherman had dried around its edges.
“What is the meaning of this?” Asked King Goliant angrily while he scratched his beard. “How dare you bring a corpse to my feet without my request!”
“Apologies, my lord,” started Craibe. “It seemed prudent as the letter is addressed to you and you alone. If I may?”
Craibe knelt down and pulled the arrow from the body, causing it to spasm as the notch brushed against the nerve fibers of the dead fisherman. The guards, spooked, stabbed at the corpse, making a mess of the bedchamber floor. Sensing his rising anger, Craibe sent them away to fetch a wash basin. Once they left he presented the letter, still wrapped around the arrow.
For His Piss Eyes Only, it read.
Goliant considered the writing while rubbing his chin. The ink was of his isles. He unfurled the letter and inspected the crude script. After a few moments, he read it aloud for the benefit of Craibe as well as anyone else who cannot see it.
“Listen here, brother! The time of your reign is over as soon as my muscly legs touch your soggy soil that’s been stained by your yellow coward piss! I will suplex your old ass spine into the ground so hard that the tiara you call a crown will form a diamond that I will use to propose to your mom/sister/wife/side babe to make my queen before I bring new meaning to the name Fingered Isles! Be ready, brother! P.S. Half the reason I’m coming is because we can smell your putrid stench across the waves back home. Dictated, but not read. Signed, The Pincher.”
“The Pincher?” Said Craibe.
“It is not a name I recognize either,” admitted Goliant. “Awaken the Master of Arms. We must prepare patrols for our beaches and-”
A flaming arrow shot through the open window and hit the corpse of the fisherman. Goliant and Craibe saw that it had a note, but it was burned to ash before either could retrieve it. A few moments later, another arrow hit the body. The second arrow was unlit. Goliant took the note and read it aloud.
“Let’s do this, brother! Dictated, but not read. Signed, The Pincher.”
The two men peered out the window with care. On the shores they saw a fleet of ships beaching onto the shores. Torches were being lit by their troops. Goliant recognized their colors. They were of his old lands, though he could not make out their new insignia. Where his old sigil displayed the two boulders of strength and courage, this new one had added a large shaft whose function he could not determine.
“Damn, I’d hoped we’d have more time,” the King complained.
“Your predecessor said much the same,” admitted Craibe.
Goliant’s face grew grave. He paced his room once more, pulling tufts of his beard until he came to a decision.
“I must dress. Wait for me in the hall,” he commanded.
“As you wish, my lord,” said Craibe.
A few moments later, King Goliant exited into the hall in full royal regalia. His armor had been forged by the best of the Fingered Isles. It was hardened copper with little baby crabs stamped across the otherwise smooth surface. The patina of its surface had turned into a deep green. He dawned his helm which covered most of his face and stood to his full height. Craibe smiled grimly.
“I have informed the Master of Arms. He is readying the troops now-”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Goliant. “Come, we have to meet with someone before I make combat.”
“Who, my lord?”
“The Queen.”
Deep under the castle, the Tide Dungeon was visited by few save for those in charge of prisoner feeding. The prisoners were kept in small cells carved into a cave which fed into the ocean. The waters, usually at ankle height during the lowest tides of the year, were up to their chests. The two men waded carefully through the hall to the last cell at the end. Inside, the Queen stood. She had her arms chained above her head by irons clamped around each wrist. Her mouth had been bound with a leather bite covered in dried salt like much of her clothing. The years had not been kind to her frame, and the constant saltwater waves combined with the horrid conditions left her both gaunt and with skin that appeared bloated due to wrinkling.
Goliant had never visited her before now. If not for the hate in her eyes, he may not have recognized her at all. As her eyes fell to his chin though, he noticed the ends of her mouth pull up into a cruel smile. He motioned for Craibe to come over, inadvertently splashing him, and handed him a dagger from his waist.
“Craibe, I must speak to the prisoner. If at any point she tries to commit another curse, kill her.”
Craibe nodded and took the blade. He waded behind the former queen and held the blade such that the tip alone poked from the water’s surface towards her neck. With the other hand, he unfastened the leather bite. The Queen smiled, her lips cracked and her teeth stained.
“So nice to have visitors, and on a night as lovely as this,” she started. “I would offer you something to drink, but I’m afraid there’s only the one option.”
“Quiet. I’ve come to strike a deal,” said King Goliant. He noted the look of brief shock that spread across both Craibe’s face as well as that of the former queen before continuing. “There’s an enemy at our shores, one I surely cannot beat this day. I require your weirding words. Give me the tools to best this enemy, and I will release you.”
“My lord, you cannot mean to trust this wench,” said Craibe.
“Trust? No. But we have an enemy at our gates. She can chance my mercy or die here and let the sea take her back under the rocks and waves.”
The Queen considered his words for a moment before speaking.
“You must understand,” she started. “Any help I can give must also come with a price. The words I weave require balance. Power must come at a cost. You have felt but a drop of that cost across your face these many years. Would you see more?”
“Aye, let’s be done with it.”
The Queen smiled.
Craibe walked alone towards the troops camped on the beach. He held a small white flag against one shoulder as his bare feet sunk into the sands. His robes were still damp from the dungeons, causing several troops to laugh as he passed them to the main tent erected on the shore.
The leader of this outlaw band, The Pincher, stepped out of the tent. He was a hulking bruiser of a man, scarred and leathery from years of sun and sea. He smiled, great white teeth shining, at the approach of this envoy. He addressed Craibe plainly, pointing at him as he spoke.
“Brother, you better not be coming here to tell me that lily-livered spawn of a dog’s taint is surrendurin’! I told my men they’d get to see some action, and that’s exactly what I aim to give them. You understand me, brother?”
“Sir, my king bade me to deliver a request.”
The Pincher laughed boisterously. “A request? What could that puny little pipsqueak want?”
“He claims the Rite of the Claw.”
The Pincher smiled wide, revealing even more white pearls before patting Craibe on the shoulder. “Ab-so-lutely!”
It only took an hour for his troops to dig out the pit for the ceremony. The Pincher spent the entire time talking up the match, working his people into a fervor. The Isles, though filled with tumult, had several traditions they held dear. Few were as revered as the Rite of the Claw. It would be a fight to the death, with the two combatants’ hands grappled at all times. It was a show of strength, and one The Pincher knew he had the muscles to back up.
The sun began to rise as he waited for the king to arrive. He grew impatient, and could tell his troops were beginning to grow agitated at being made to sit still. Ever the showman, he tried to keep them entertained by flexing and showboating. However, since they were all of the sea the troops had seen every boat he could show.
By noon the tide had lowered again, beaching most of the invading ships. Shortly after, a brawl broke out amongst his men over the lack of popcorn and proper fightside refreshments. Eventually the fight drew blood, and like sharks to a frenzy, the violence spread until it spilled into the fighting pit itself. The Pincher, in a bid to regain control of his men, tried to stop them by doing single leg flips but it was no use. By sundown, the invading armies had been defeated with the few remaining troops leaving on what ships remained. The Pincher himself lay dead in the pit, several crabs already pulling at his hot-dog colored skin.
The following night, the moon brought in a tide that flooded the Tide Dungeon. King Goliant stood above the mouth of the dungeon with Craibe. In a small rowboat sat the former queen, packs of supplies in the boat with her.
“I’m still not clear on what you did to them, I must admit,” said King Goliant.
She smiled her wicked smile and looked out to the sea behind her. “It is perhaps better left a mystery. Then again, even a man in your status must understand the bitterness of disappointment.”
“Aye,” he said in a somber tone.
“Then you know well enough.”
King Goliant and Craibe watched as she paddled away. As soon as she was out of earshot, Craibe turned to his king.
“My lord, are you sure this is wise?”
“We won,” said the King while scratching at his groin with one hand and his beard with the other.
“Yes, but to let such an enemy go? Should we not fear her return?”
King Goliant considered his advisor. Craibe had been a strange man. One to turn on his former leader, yet stay faithful to him. Goliant found it inspiring in a way and carefully thought out a response as his ten digits dug gleefully into his skin.
“Perhaps you are right, my friend. Send for our best archer. Tell him to bring some pitch.”
THE END