The Corsair and the Coin - a festive short story

Hello everyone! I thought I’d give you all a holiday gift, and so I wrote a short story for you this Christmas. This story is set in the world of ‘The Whispering Depths’ during the Midwinter’s Crest festival.
I hope you enjoy.

The Corsair and the Coin

Farfield had always held a special place in the Corsair’s heart. Its charming visage, the smell of fresh-baked rosemary bread and fresh-brewed honey ale wafting through the streets, the thick snow piling high as midwinter approached. 

It was especially charming, the Corsair had always thought, during the Midwinter’s Crest festival, when all the children of the empire huddled around sparking fires and told each other stories of terrifying monsters lurking in the snow, and of great heroes fighting to protect them. 

He remembered fondly the Crests he’d spent crouched by the stovetop as his mother prepared mutton stew and crusted bread, bickering with his brothers over who could build a stronger fort in the snow, or who would be allowed to place the wreath upon the door to ward off malevolent spirits. 

It was all so long ago, he thought. All gone now.

But he had business to attend. His band of pirates and cutthroats had stolen into port in the night, careful as to not alert the imperial sentries to their presence. Not that it had been difficult for the pirate lord. After all, only the very dregs of the imperial soldiers would be sent to guard a small town in the southern reaches of the empire’s grasp.

He pulled his collar up against the chilling winds, slinking through the snowy streets. He knew his men would be up on the rooftops, preparing their ropes and hooks for the job to come. He was about to step out when he heard a high-pitched cry.

“Everyone knows the story, stupid!” The shrill voice pierced the silent night. He heard two children laughing, and another begin to cry. He paused a moment, listening. The two continued to laugh, and he heard a faint grunt and a crunch as one of the children pushed another to the ground.

An old memory, half forgotten, flashed through his mind. A large boy shoving him into the dirt, the taunting laughs of childhood bullies. The job could wait a moment or two, he decided. Slinking through the shadows he soon found the trio of children, standing around a small fire in a back alley. The smallest of them was bruised and beaten, lying in the snow. 

“You’re wrong!” The scrawny child screamed, failing to hide his tears. “I know the story, my mother told me!”

“Your mother’s a filthy southerner, whelp, everyone knows it!” The two began to laugh again. “Here, let me tell you the true story.” The larger boy began. “Long ago, King Hjalmar was a savage southerner, a cannibal who drank the blood of his enemies and made his house from their bones.” He peered down, revelling in the smaller boy’s discomfort. “He thought he was death incarnate, and thought himself above the Gods. He attacked the empire, trying to invade us! But the Gods love us, and they wouldn’t let him hurt us. They sent their champion, Clyseon, to challenge him. The two fought in a duel to the death, both trying to push the other back. Clyseon wouldn’t allow Hjalmar to move beyond the Pass, and that’s where he held him for three days and three nights in epic combat.” The boy flourished his hand as if he had been holding a sword, waving it at the small boy, still crouched in the snow. “In the end, Clyseon beat Hjalmar, and when his soul arrived in Fo’Valad, Lord Raenax himself decreed that Hjalmar’s punishment should be to spend eternity serving the empire, bringing gifts and treats to all the true-born children every Midwinter’s Crest. But even to this day he’s planning his escape, cursing the Gods and cursing us imperials. If he had his way, he’d tear out our throats and eat our hearts, or drag our souls back to his fort made of human bones. That’s what my brother told me.” The larger boy crossed his arms over his chest, his smug grin taunting the other boy to retaliate. 

“That’s not true, you’re a liar!” The small boy cried. “Hjalmar is a hero, he loves us! He was the hero king of Summer’s Bane, and he fought against the evil sorcerer Clyseon, who threatened to invade the south and kill all its people! His army went and met Clyseon at the Pass. The two fought for days and days, but neither could win. The only way Hjalmar could save the south was to let Clyseon’s sword stab him, trapping it. Then he had one clean shot, and killed the sorcerer. In thanks, the Gods offered him one single wish. But instead of using it himself, he gave it to his only son, Sveinar. Sveinar wished he could see his father again every year, and so the Gods sent Hjalmar back to Summer’s Bane every year, during midwinter. But once Sveinar had grown up and eventually dies, Hjalmar kept coming back. He decided to use this gift from the Gods to help the children of the south. Every year, when he came back, he would bring gifts and offer them to the children of Summer’s Bane. Eventually, he started migrating to other forts and bringing gifts to all the children south of Ran’s fingers!”

“Is that what your mother told you?” The large boy scoffed. “Of course she’d say that. She’s a southerner. A savage. She probably wants to serve you to King Hjalmar as a tribute, so he can add your skull to his fort of bones!” The large boy shoved him again, laughing. 

“Do you boys want to hear the real story?” The Corsair emerged from the shadows, the darkness falling away from him as a silken cloak as he stepped into the warm light of the fire. The three boys flinched and backed away, eyes wide and poised to flee.

“Wh-who are you…?” The large boy’s smug grin disappeared as he looked up into the imposing figure and porcelain-smooth features of the pirate lord. 

“Old King Hjalmar and the sorcerer Clyseon were friends, once. They grew up together.” He began. “The best of friends, they were. Until one day, when Clyseon grew jealous of Hjalmar’s land and beautiful wife. But he could not go to war with the King, for Hjalmar was far too powerful. No, Clyseon decided he would betray Hjalmar, and went to his sons, whispering poison into their ears. He told them that, with their father dead, they could lay claim to his kingdom. His spell affected their minds, turning them against their father. When Hjalmar found out, he went into a rage. He marched north, bent on killing his once-friend Clyseon. The two met at the Pass, and a great battle erupted between their armies. Ultimately, Hjalmar was victorious, and marched back home to Summer’s Bane. He thought that, with the sorcerer dead, his sons would be freed from their spell. But the rot had taken root, and their minds were forever altered. They killed their father while he slept, and ate the flesh from his bones.” The Corsair took a step closer, eyes boring into the boy. “And now, every year, on the eve of his death, his vengeful ghost haunts the continent, looking for fat little boys to wreak his vengeance upon, for they remind him of his greedy sons, stuffing their mouths with his flesh!” 

He stomped forward, sending the two fat boys screaming into the night. He turned, laughing, and helped the small boy to his feet. “Don’t mind them, boy. Fat little piggies are alway the most cowardly.”

“Thanks.” The boy dusted the snow from his trousers. “Who are you?”

“Oh, just a passer-by. Who are you?”

“Leif.”

“You’re very brave, Leif. That boy was a lot bigger than you.”

“You think so?”

“I know so. I tell you what, when you’re a little older, and you’re looking for work, come find me. My organisation could use a man with your bravery.”

“Wow, really?” The boy’s eyes lit up. 

“Absolutely. But for now, run on home. Your mother is probably worried sick to death.”

“Thanks again, sir. If you want some rosemary bread, my ma makes it best.”

“Kind of you to offer, boy. But I have business. You run along now.”

The boy nodded and scampered away, disappearing into the cold night. 

The Corsair laughed to himself before continuing on, whistling as he stalked the streets and alleys, winding his way towards his goal. 

An imperial treasury would never be an easy target, but he had always relished a challenge.

-

The boy burst through the door, and before he could even breathe his mother was on him, dragging him by the ear. “Leif Vigdison, how many times have I told you to come home before dark?” 

She sat him next to the fire, wrapping a warm blanket about his shoulders. 

“You will be the death of me, boy.”

“I’m sorry ma.”

“Well, you should be. It’s Midwinter’s eve and I’ll not have my son running about the town like a tramp. There’s vagrants about, and I don’t want you getting wrapped up in something nefarious. Now go wash up, and change out of those filthy rags.”

“Yes ma.” 

The woman leaned down, planting a warm kiss on his forehead. “Go on then.” She shooed him away. 

The wooden door creaked open and he entered into the small room that served as his living quarters. He heard a rustle and a thump, and watched as a small leather pouch fell from the windowsill.

He stalked over, cautiously turning the pouch over before plucking it from the wooden floor. He slipped it open, a single gold coin falling out and tumbling to the floor, landing with a heavy clink. He picked up the coin, inspecting it. His eyes went wide as the gold shone in the orange candlelight.

“It can’t be…” He turned it in his palm, and saw the crossed spears of the imperial treasury stamped in the soft gold. “Real gold…” He marvelled to himself. 

He felt in the pouch, finding a mall scrap of parchment jammed into the folds of the leather. He opened it, reading;

For bravery. 

Happy Midwinter’s Crest. When you’re ready, come find me.

-The Corsair

That’s all for 2024 folks, I hope you enjoyed my cozy little Christmas special (with a healthy dose of fantasy). I wish everyone a wonderful holiday, and I’ll see you all next year!

Thanks for reading!