15th Spring 523
The boat creaked and groaned beneath the strain but one could scarcely notice above the dull roar that resonated through the submerged hull. The storm had grown stronger and the pitching of the Iron Tiger was certain to test the moniker’s resolve. Deep within the hold, the slaves were tossed against their bindings and cages while the trade goods fought to be free and skid across the deck. Water, like brined fish, would come in blasts down the stairs and then drip from things above until the next wave saw fit to try and fill the ship’s belly once more.
Ebrashi cowered in his corner. Shackles held his right wrist but he clung to the chain suspended to the deck above him with both hands as if his forced servitude would be his salvation. The white hair was bluish gray in the eerie shadows. It was wet and matted to his face in clumps but not all of the salt was from the raging sea. Sweat poured from his brow but desert people do not sweat from heat. This was from fear.
Abarr was not here. He could not for the dead do not sail. The deep voice and dark eyes could not calm the storms or explain away the anxiety like when Ebrashi was young.
“Ben, ben, ben. Where is your shir?” The powerful man would ask. Now, just as then, the young man answered with the voice of a child.
“I do not know my shir, abarr!” Ebrashi called to the crashing waves while the image of his father faded into shadow. No shir- no faith. Another powerful blast caused the ship to linger against the lean of a steep dive which wrested the Benshira’s feet from beneath him. Dangling from his chains, the herder flexed his muscles with everything he had to prevent from being swept away for the few ticks that he was weightless. As the Iron Tiger righted herself, the lanky youth swung as if from a vine and slammed into the side of the hull with a wet smack that sent pain shooting through his left shoulder and down his arm.
“Hik!” He cursed. Ebrashi spent some of his small energy pool to get his feet back below his waist and straightened himself to ease the tension in his arms. Tears welled in his eyes as the salt stung and the fear rose. Higher than the waves he imagined outside the ship, the terror the young man felt had suddenly become palpable. It tasted like clay soured by rotten remains and prevented him from swallowing. His breathing became shallow and slightly panicked amidst a lull in the storm’s heaving desire.
Golden eyes, stricken and bloodshot scanned the deck to the other unfortunate souls like himself. Some prayed. Some wept. One woman sang a tune in a language he did not recognize. It was sad but strong despite being a little offkey. Ebrashi suddenly missed his mother’s voice and he looked away.
Through a crack formed by saturated timbers who have lost some of their splinters, the golden gaze was greeted by slivers of silver light from the smiling face of Leth. He was peering through the clouds just as Ebrashi was peeking through the hull. How strange and comforting to witness a god mimicking a lowly slave! The young man stilled for a tick or maybe a lifetime. What was time to a possession, after all?
“Falim, javeya rapa.” It was a whisper but it came out as a melody. Ebrashi felt his heart quiet its thumping and his breathing coast down to normal. A faint smile broke his dry lips.
The clouds moved swiftly and covered the god’s visage. The world was black once more and the storm returned with all its cacophony but Ebrashi felt stronger than before. He held his chains but did not quiver in fear. A hum like a wave of power washed over the ship. It was not water, it was not like anything Ebrashi had ever experienced before.
A mighty groan accompanied the ship as it was swept away by this mysterious force. It was soon replaced by the explosion of rock coming up through the hull. Boards, splinters, gear, goods, and bodies all went flying as the once potent vessel was run aground. As the deck which held his chains fell away into the frothing sea, Ebrashi cast his eyes to the sky in hopes to see the moon one last time. Salt water blurred his vision but still he dared to keep his eyes open. There, between the crooked fingers of parting clouds, was a dagger of pure silver.
“Falim, mahim.” In the darkness of the water’s grasp, the son of a herder had found his shir.
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