“Aeden, stop her cannon,” Captain Nawfel shouted from the poop deck.
Realization settled upon him as a flash of lightning cast the captain’s figure in light and shadow. He was pointing toward the source of the explosion.
“Father watch over me and give me strength,” Aeden whispered as he climbed to the forecastle.
Once on the bow he braced himself on the foremast. A grappling hook and line were still firmly attached to the railing of the ship. Aeden took in a deep breath, clamped onto the Templas sword with his teeth and clambered across.
The wind buffeted him as he struggled to maintain his grip on the wet rope. His sword immediately felt far too heavy and he ached to let it go. The waves danced upon the prow and sprayed upward in giant plumes of salty mist. The water stung at his eyes and threatened to tear him loose of his weakening grip.
Finally Aeden reached the railing of the pirate caravel. He hauled himself onto their deck only to come face to face with a startled pirate. He kicked him squarely in the groin and threw the wheezing man overboard.
With his sword in his hand he looked upon the deck. He searched for the cannon. The ship was smaller than the Seventh Sage. It only had two masts, an extended poop deck and a short foredeck. Its lateen sails were reefed.
“Acele etmek!” a short man shouted.
Aeden caught sight of a small group huddled around a long metal tube. A young man was in the act of stuffing a metal rod down the hollow shaft. Another quickly placed river stone within, ramming it home with a ramrod. Off to the side the short man lit the end of a linstock, a long staff with a slow burning match. That had to be it, Aeden thought.
He rushed across the deck. The storm raged about him masking his movement. The men now struggled as they ran the cannon back out. The ship heaved underfoot. Aeden braced himself as best as he could. The men stood back placing a small block behind the wooden wheels. The breech of the cannon was primed with powder as the short man approached with the linstock.
Aeden swung his sword and sliced through the wood of the linstock. The top half fell to the deck as the slow match sputtered. The man reacted immediately using the remaining portion of the staff as a weapon. The others turned to face Aeden. The realization that death was likely upon him settled firmly into his stomach. He should have killed the man.
The short pirate lunged forward and Aeden stumbled back. The other men moved toward him fanning out to either side. Rain splashed upon the deck in angry sheets as if taunting the crew.
Aeden’s heart pounded away feverishly. Gusts of wind hurled over the railing picking up the rain and sending it across the caravel in blinding curtains of despair. Nearly drowned by the wind was the sound of triumphant shouting. A lone voice stood out amidst the cacophony of the storm.
“Biz kazandik! Biz kazandik!”
“Do your dog ears hear this sound?” the short man grunted. “We take your ship, your cargo, and your crew.”
Although he spoke with a thick grueling accent Aeden understood every word. His heart sank as a pit formed in his stomach and his bowels turned to water. They had captured the Seventh Sage. He was too late. He had been too slow and too merciful.
Again he had failed those he cared about because of weakness. Fear had stayed his hand and robbed him of his freedom. He looked up half expecting to see his father’s disappointed features glaring down upon him. Instead he was rewarded with a face full of rain.
“Dog, I speak to you. Lay down that sword. You are mine now,” the man continued, his dark eyes staring upon him with a mad intensity. His words were like steel over a grinding stone.
Aeden glanced to either side and saw the others slowly approach him. Two more men climbed out of the hold with chains in hand. One of them caught sight of Aeden and drew a dagger with his free hand.
He knew when he had lost. Aeden let go of his Templas blade. It fell upon the wooden deck with a hollow sound, ringing out as if in pain.
Two men approached from either side holding their sword tips to his neck as the shorter man approached and picked up Aeden’s fallen sword. He held it up examining it in the faint light of distant lightning.
“Where did a slave steal such a sword?” The man eyed him curiously.
Aeden looked back at him in defiance. One of the men hit him in the back of the head with the flat of his sword.
“You answer when spoken to dog,” he said holding his gaze. “Where did you steal this?” He asked again, this time painfully slow as though Aeden couldn’t understand basic Heortian.
“It’s mine, I didn’t steal it,” he replied.
Aeden staggered to his knees as a blow struck him in the back of the neck. He hadn’t seen it coming.
“Watch your tongue slave,” the man spat upon the ground and walked off, holding Aeden’s Templas sword in his hand like it was a favored prize.
Another man approached. He was thickly muscled and taller than the last. He held chains in his hands. He quickly bound Aeden’s hands. He worked with the practiced efficiency of one who had done this a thousand times. He manipulated Aeden the way one would a sheep to be shorn. Manacles were then placed upon his feet. A small hammer drove the locking pin home.
The sound of the hammer upon the iron echoed loudly in his head. It was the sound of freedom being stripped away.
Chapter 52
“Freedom is a state of mind for some and a state of being for others.” Proverb of the Sawol
The following two weeks were agony. Heat, hunger, and fever each played a hand by inflicting ever greater levels of discomfort. Shame was cast to the sea the day following the storm.
The winds had died to a slow breeze. The clouds gave way to the intensity of the sun and humidity clung to the air with desperation. The Seventh Sage had been captured. Half her crew had been slain or lost to sea. The other half had been split between the two caravels, slaver ships.
Aeden had been relieved to see that the other monks were for the most part unharmed. They too stood on the deck before the unforgiving sun. Its fingers of light probed every part of their naked bodies as they stood on the deck of the Zafer. Before them stood Reem Sati Agir, the short man Aeden had encountered the night before, the man who had stolen his Templas sword.
He eyed them carefully as other men checked their bodies. A dialect of the deep A’sh desert was uttered between the men. Calloused hands checked each of them for injury and disease. None were spoken to, for they were below their captors in every respect of the word.
Hamal was one of the crewmembers taken aboard the Zafer. He was the only man who chose to speak aloud. He was the only man from the Seventh Sage that understood their dialect. They shared a language and culture.
The similarities were but stagnant water at the captors’ feet. Hamal was severely beaten for daring to question them. His echoing cries plagued Aeden’s nightmares. His bloodied face was contorted in pain as one of the slavers pummeled him over and over. A look of boredom was etched on the captor’s features as if this were a job he’d undertaken a hundred times over.
“You see dogs,” Reem said aloud, “this is what comes of defiance,” his accent sounded like grated metal.
Reem looked down upon the crumpled form of Hamal. Reem shook his head in mild disappointment.
“He’s damaged, throw him over,” he commanded in Heortian so that the others could understand.
The translation wasn’t necessary. Two muscular men picked up Hamal by his hands and feet. He attempted to struggle, but only weakly. His body had been broken. They swung him up and over the railing of the Zafer. The subtle splash of his body hitting the water was like a nail driven into each and every skull of the naked men who stood watching.
None dared speak thereafter. Not in the presence of their captors. It wasn’t until they were shackled below deck that muted whispers were heard. Prayers, complaints, and pleas of quiet agony hung upon the stale atmosphere.
The air below deck was foul. It was thick with the scents of fear, excrement,
and rot. Never had Aeden experienced such a stench. His nose burned. His eyes watered. His stomach turned and he lost all sense of taste, smell, and his desire for food.
When it came time to go above deck to eat Aeden refused. Not out of disobedience, but out of fear. He was afraid he wouldn’t be able to keep his food down. It was his first mistake under their captivity.
The sun was up. A few white clouds were painted upon the blue sky the day Aeden was first beaten as a slave. The other men of the Seventh Sage and his brother monks were all forced to watch. Punishment was a lesson for them all. Every bloody detail was meant to be remembered.
Aeden was tied down by his feet. His hands were bound and placed above his head upon a hook on the mainmast. His heart pounded strangely in his chest. He remembered being thankful for the smell of the sea. The fresh air gave him strength and gave him hope. A subtle hope that was nothing more than the whisper of a lover’s secret.
An otherwise normal looking man stood to the side, watching. His eyes were intense and curious. Another approached from behind with a whip in hand. The smell of his sweat hung about him like a wet sheet.
Fear crept into Aeden’s young mind as the anticipation of pain crept into view.
Snap! The man lashed out striking at the air as if to hear the crack of the whip. There was a playful grin that passed across his features. The smile disappeared and the whip cracked through the air again. This time the tail sliced through skin and muscle. Pain welled up through Aeden’s back and down his legs.
He’d lost fights. He’d trained with stones, staffs, and all manner of weapons. He’d trained his body to be hard against strikes and soft against incoming attacks. He’d been beaten by fists, but never had he felt such a pain as that of the whip.
Each slash cut through the air and tore upon the naked skin of his back. Eventually he grew numb from the throbbing torment. He sagged against the mainmast. It was his only support, his only comfort. The rope about his hands bit into his wrists. Blood dripped down his arms as it did his back. He was too tired and too beaten to care.
“You’ll eat dog,” was all that was said.
Aeden was cut down. He fell to the deck in a heap. A man kicked him in his ribs. He reflected upon the surprise at the new sensation of pain.
“Up,” the man said.
Aeden struggled. His arms shook and his back burned. His hands were slippery with his own blood. Despite the pain he managed to stagger to the other monks. Odilo caught his eye. He nodded his head briefly in understanding and then glanced at the bowl of food they were all given.
Aeden ate. He forced the food into his mouth. Each mouthful of the tasteless porridge threatened to accumulate into a massive lump in his throat. With great will he choked down every bite.
He kept his head down and endured the only way he knew how. He shut off part of himself. He sectioned off a piece of his psyche. He ignored the pain, the physical torment, and withdrew into a quiet shell he had created deep within his mind.
Chapter 53
“Money drives the desires of men and eats at his wayward heart.” Proverb of the A’sh
By the end of the second week Aeden’s fever broke. The undulating movements of the ship, the confined quarters, chains, and stench had been unbearable. As the days grew warmer so too did the pestilent atmosphere of the hold. Perspiration, urine, seawater, and waste hung in the stagnant air in a suffocating aroma of distaste.
His back continued to bleed for the first few days. One of the crewmembers from the Seventh Sage had urinated on his back daily in an effort to keep the wound from festering. It must have worked for Aeden had begun a slow recovery.
Each day he allowed the sun to warm the wounds upon his back. Each day he ate his two meals in silence. And each day he swore to himself that he would soon be free.
Neri had fallen into a sullen stupor. Words, humor, and all attempts of communication had failed. He had withdrawn into himself and simply stared at the world with unseeing eyes. Odilo remained strong. He had lost that sparkling smile in his eye, but his spirit was firm. It was his words and his prayers that gave strength to many of the others. Adel needed them more than most.
Adel looked frightened. He hovered between shock and apathy. At times Aeden glimpsed bits of his former self. And as the days passed he slowly seemed to accept his fate. He took to the role better than Aeden could ever have. His posture changed to subservience.
Shouts from above distracted Aeden from idle thoughts. All whispers ceased as the sound of gulls rang in the hot air. The sounds of men working upon the deck were evident. Aeden imagined the sails being reefed as they glided into port.
He didn’t know how much time passed before the hatch was peeled open. Sunlight peeked its wary head into the dark corners of the slaver’s bowels. A gust of wind brought the smells of the sea.
Two men lowered themselves below deck, holding a piece of cloth to their nose. They moved quickly among the captured men, shackling legs and hands before freeing them from their group restraints.
“Move topside you filthy dogs,” one of the men shouted in barely intelligible Heortian.
Aeden was closest to the hatch. He stumbled as he climbed up the short ladder. The chains at his feet clanked upon each wooden step. The sound was akin to the distant song of a forge.
Sunlight and heat attacked his tired body as he pushed himself onto the deck. His eyes struggled to adjust from the intensity of the glare as he took in his surroundings.
The Zafer had docked. On the other side of the pier was the Seventh Sage, her sails reefed, and the other caravel, Ruzgar. In the light of day the splintered holes along the carrack’s side appeared as small wounds upon her otherwise unblemished skin. Dotting the wide harbor were hundreds of smaller ships. Scows, cogs, caravels, and a few carracks provided a splash of color to the pale blue waters off the coast of a magnificent city.
Aeden shuffled to the starboard side as the others clambered to the main deck. His attention was now upon the city by the water. White buildings gleamed in the sunlight, climbing a gentle slope, which was capped by the largest structure Aeden had ever seen. A round dome dominated the cityscape, flanked by six slender towers. Gold capped the top of the dome, shining like a beacon to the gods. He didn’t know there was so much gold in all of Verold.
They had arrived upon the fabled southern city of Sha’ril.
“Dogs, listen to your master,” Reem spoke aloud.
Aeden couldn’t help but notice that he now wore the Templas sword at his hip. He must have uncovered the scabbard from the Seventh Sage, for it hung sheathed before his eyes like a slap to the face.
“You will do well to obey. Speak when spoken to, not otherwise. List your talents when asked, and feel free to embellish, so my pockets may be lined with sigloi.”
Over the course of the following hour they were washed down with salt water and scrubbed clean. Aeden had his wounds attended to and was given a simple shirt to wear to cover the scabs and deep scars lining his back. They were fed, threatened, clothed and talked to.
“Do not pretend injury or you will be beaten,” Reem exclaimed, “stand proud on the block, but don’t let your eyes linger.”
Aeden only partially paid attention as Reem spouted rules for them to follow. He was grateful for the fresh air. It felt good to move, to stand, and to feel the touch of the sun upon his face.
Once the tirade of etiquette was done they were led off the ship down a gangplank to the pier. A stream of goods and people entered the white city, sweeping them up in the tide of humanity entering Sha’ril. Slave soldiers stood guard, unwaveringly. Their spears gleamed in the late morning light. Green pendants with a single sword burnished on their faces snapped and furled in the light morning wind.
The former crew members of the Seventh Sage and the four monks passed under the grand archway of Caliph Rajah. They walked in a two man procession down the main street of Sha’ril. They were flanked and trailed by the slavers of the Zafer and Ruzgar. Reem Sati Ag
ir led the shuffling group with his head held high. Aeden’s Templas sword swung lightly by his side.
The day had grown hot under the intense gaze of the southerly sun. The white walls that gleamed so purely from the sanguine waters of port appeared worn with age. They were cracked, with crumbled corners. Despite their apparent age they were blindingly bright.
Aeden’s eyes watered under the scrutiny of their reflected light. His neck grew sore and raw from the metal clasp that bound him by chains to those behind him. Sand and dust filled cracks in the roadway and piled in corners along the sides of buildings. The occasional gust of wind hurled granules of the A’sh into his sunburnt face. The march through the tight streets of the bustling city had become an effort of endurance.
The scene only proved mildly more distracting than his discomfort. Sha’ril was the fabled city of the south. It was the seat of the famous Caliphate of A’sh, a ruthless empire that had once stretched from the White Sea to the Barre Mountains.
Aeden glanced about. The men ignored him. The children pointed and stared. They giggled as they watched the group marched through the street as if they were a parade for their amusement.
Small, skinny hairless dogs scavenged the narrow alleys in search of scraps of food. Stone archways of varying height lined the main roads. They provided shade for vendors. They cast entryways into shadow and permeated the atmosphere with a hint of mystery. Hidden courtyards lay beyond.
Aeden hoped the small, scampering animal had caught Neri’s attention. Hopefully it brought him a modicum of joy. It was funny that even chained, uncomfortable and captive, his mind continued to churn out thoughts unabated.
The sounds of bustling activity and shouting grew like the buzzing of a swarm of approaching bees. The roadway widened as the procession forced their way through the massive crowds. The lingering scent of perfumed oils and sweat hung thickly in the air.
Tears of a Heart Page 32