It had been a month since we had left for the far North. A bitter chill had torn at our sails and crept over the aching wood of our vessel. There were fifteen of us when we departed all those months before. The first three fell as soon as we reached the cold of the Artic. Winds lashed our beaten faces and the ship moaned, scraping through the glacial wasteland.  

It was bright. Thin sheets spread out around us, reflecting ghostly light. Still, we never saw movement on the ice. But there was always crying. We would hear it at night, through the darkness, when the sharp air fell to a mourning whisper and our sails slept with us. I remember I heard one of our men crying along with the wind. He would wake every night and wander the deck, listening to the shrill song that shook us from disturbed sleep.

It was after the first week that we were stopped. Thick ice slid in around our vessel and it jarred and halted. We were thrown as the ship screamed to a dead standstill. A group of five braved the cold to find a way to break us free. Three returned. Two had fallen through thin ice, unable to see their footing through the rushing smoke that rose in hurricane wisps.  

We were lost in a frozen wasteland, the wind beating us in the day, and singing our funeral song in the evening. The ten of us that remained knew that we would not last long. Another week passed and one more had died from the cold. The day after, we found no trace of the young man who cried at night. We searched for his body, but found nothing. I swore I heard him crying that night, answering the long, weeping calls of the wind. But I never heard him again.

Eight remained when the ice finally let us free. We knew we could not go on. Even in turning back, we knew we had little food to sustain us; but the ice opened for us to turn, and something like hope forced us to try.

We had gone in search of northern lands, and found only desolate, lifeless expanses. There was nothing of home there. Weary and broken, our crew and vessel pulled free from the ice and slowly crept back through the still waters. We vowed to return the bodies of the dead home.

Yet it seemed Fortune was against us. We finally reached the open sea again, to find that the wind blew like a tempest on our struggling ship. She was ripped and torn open. We took clothes from our fallen crew and patched up sails. We hacked wood from tables and nailed the broken planks. But every fix was met with another onslaught of storms on the fierce water.  

Another two weeks passed and all our energy was drained. Barely a morsel of food remained to keep our strength and, though the storms had passed, the wind was always against us.

Then there was the fog. Our vessel cautiously waded through the heavy clouds that suffocated us in their grasp. At night, there was no way to guide our passage, and the morning daylight was hidden from us.

But, as our hope dwindled, a glimpse of lamplight appeared through the fog. All eight of us charged to the edge of the ship, as the light pierced and poured through to greet us. It was dim at first, but the fire grew brighter as it approached, massing into a beacon that drew closer and brighter every second. A saviour had come to our aid, and soon we would be fed, washed, clothed: home. We watched and thanked all the forces of the earth that we had been rescued.   

The light dispersed to reveal a dozen shining torches. The vessel erupted from the fog and turned to line up at our side. We slowed our ship, and saw the torches dim as the still-concealed figures of our saviours – shadows in the smoky air – hurried in and out of sight. With a clambering thud, two long planks slid through the fog, stretching across, and we aligned them and locked them securely, so that we may climb over the dark ocean abyss below, abandoning our weary vessel, to take refuge on theirs.

We were all fervent to make the crossing, but knew that the planks were thin and would only take one at a time. The first two of our men crossed carefully, one obviously more able than the other. He stepped ahead and was the first to reach the other side. His body was quickly concealed by the fog, but we knew he had made it safely. The other man tentatively clambered forwards, into the awaiting arms of our saviours.

Yet, suddenly, he stood, frozen, his body tensing. Something was wrong. By the time he had turned to relay what he saw, the first scream of the more able man was heard above the mist. His second scream was silenced in its making, but the first fear-stricken cry was warning enough. The lesser able man tried desperately to run back across the planks, away from the awaiting vessel, but, out of the fog, walking the planks with expert precision, two vicious, sword-wielding men raced across towards us. One pushed past our frightened comrade, knocking him off balance and throwing him into the abyss below.

The two men were on us with intense speed and a furious, violent desire. We had no weapons matching theirs to defend ourselves, reduced to draw on knives and wooden shards from our broken ship. It seemed our would-be saviours would be our final undoing.

Still, we instinctively fought, unable to run and fuelled only by our need to survive. By the time the first two had reached our side, the next two were treading the wood that joined our ships. We had no clue how many would break the fog and charge us, only knowing that we must fight to live.

I drew my knife and threw myself at the first man. He slashed at me with his weapon, and I halted to avoid running straight into his blade. Taking my chance, I leapt in between him and his out-stretched arm and stuck my knife up into his chest. Then, with what little strength I could muster, I pushed him off the side and let him fall. Unfortunately, my ally at the other plank had not been as successful. The assailant had leapt past him and swiftly chopped down a startled crew-member behind him. We were already down to five, weak and beaten and sore.

Another of our men struck at the man from behind with a large wooden bar. The blunt instrument knocked him down, and he struggled to stand, before collapsing at another crushing blow to the back of the head. The wood-brandishing crew mate turned his attention to the next plank walker, preparing for his attack. Meanwhile, another and I, both with crude knives, took to forcing the first attacker’s successor back on the plank, where another was already standing prepared behind him. They both stepped forwards and shot out their sword-arms, forcing us back. They made a push and broke onto the ship.  We circled one-on-one with them, but saw that another was already on the wooden walkway, heading towards us.

I ducked to dodge a high cutting slash and slipped my knife into my attacker’s stomach. Throwing him up and over me, I turned to see that the remaining three of our crew mates were struggling to keep another pair from making it onto the boat. Two bashed and prodded with wooden planks, trying to unbalance them from their precarious perch. Another was attempting to get close enough to stab at the closest attacker. He jabbed and managed to scrape the man’s arm, but a furious retaliation strike left a deep shoulder wound that forced him to draw back.

I turned to catch the next plank walker arriving from the enemy ship. I gave him no opportunity to make his passage and leapt up on to the wooden bar. Carefully avoiding his aimless slashing, I grabbed his arm and turned him sharply. He lost his balance and fell. I turned back to our ship to see my ally still struggling to take out his attacker. I leapt to his aid, and planted my knife in the man’s shoulder. He swung his sword in a wide arch that almost decapitated my ally. He took his chance however and tackled the man to the floor, resorting to beating him with his fists. They bled, but soon the fallen man was unconscious.

We both took up the fallens’ swords and joined the others. They had successfully knocked one assailant off the walkway, but another had taken his place and one more was approaching from behind. We arrived to see one of the wood-brandishing men suffer a fatal slice to the stomach. He keeled over, leaving an opening for the assailants to break through. The two of us closed the gap as they surged and drove our blades into the gut of the nearest man. He fell, but a sword snuck out from behind him and stabbed my ally’s shoulder. He and I retreated to see the two remaining attackers make another push and knock back our comrades.

What little energy we had was long gone and we were all broken or wounded. The other wood bearer knocked back one of the pair. However, as he turned to the next, the blade was already waiting for him, and he fell within seconds. The knife wielder had his poor excuse for a weapon knocked away by a sharp strike to the wrist and was left open. Our minor advantage in number was quickly slipping. As the assailant prepared to finish our disarmed crew mate off, I lunged from behind and planted my sword in his back. Moments later, I found myself knocked to the floor and a stinging, sharp pain shocked my body. I had been taken down and a blade had pierced my lower right side.

I watched as my wounded ally returned with a furious decapitating hack, before the shapes of two more attackers stepped onto our ship, approaching him, murderously.  The world blurred and I slipped out of consciousness.

I do not know how long it must have been before I awoke. The pain in my side erupted like it had been fire plunged into my side, not cold steel. A pair of young eyes watched me anxiously. I grabbed for the man, but I was too weak to sustain my grip. I tried to ask about my wounded ally, and was met with a grim, mournful look. He had died saving us both. There were only the two of us left. Single-handedly, this last survivor was sailing us away from the cold grasp of death that had haunted us for months, picking us off, one by one. I fell out of consciousness again.

I, finally, awoke for the last time. The wound at my side was wrapped in poor, bloody bandages. I knew it would not heal. I knew I would die soon. But I heard something above my depressing thoughts of death. It was a voice. It was a voice and it was shouting. It was a voice shouting “Home!”.

I forced myself up off the crude bed that had been made for me and dragged myself out of the wrecked cabin. As I pulled back the door, the glare of the morning sun burst into view. It embraced me with heavy warmth and, though I shielded my eyes from its majesty, I had never seen gold so beautiful as that great light. The young man turned to see my broken form and leapt over to hold me up. I forced myself on, against his protests, pulling my aching body up to the front of the ship, feeling the sunlight wrap around me, holding me. The young man assisted my movements; his hand pressing in my wound that seeped blood. Already, tears streamed down his face. When I reached the ship’s edge, I cried too.

There it was, that warm land, bathed in sunlight, a land of green fields and forests and mountains, brimming with life.  I felt some deep well of energy rising within me and I broke free from the young man’s grasp and pushed myself along the ship’s edge. My wound split and bled furiously with the exertion. Reaching the port side, I tried to lower the walkway. The young man followed and, seeing my intentions, lent his hands. The wood crashed into the water and I leapt down into the shallow pool. My body gave up on me, but, determined, I started dragging myself through the water, desperate to touch earth again. I was helped on to my feet and slowly we stepped towards home. On the beach, people had gathered. Voices cried out to us, mixed with fear and pain and joy. When I met the sand, I stood for a moment on my own, standing once again on the brave shores of a beautiful country.

A woman burst from the crowd. She rushed towards me, her face shining in the sunlight, her golden hair like white fire, her sapphire eyes weeping. She caught me in her arms as I collapsed and her tears mixed with my own. I was dying. The world was slipping away from me. But there, in her arms, on that sand, on the edge of that beautiful country, I knew I was home again and I fell into sleep, one last time.