The two men he pointed at grabbed Elias by the arms and lifted him upright. One of them slashed the rope binding his ankles, which allowed him to finally stretch out his legs. He rose to his feet, but had to stay hunched over due to the low ceiling. The two men pulled him roughly up the stairs and onto the main deck, into the bright sunlight, causing him to wince and stumble. The two men holding him had to hold onto his elbows, which were nearly as high as their shoulders. Half guiding, half dragging, they moved him across the crowded deck while his eyes adjusted to the light.
He was moving towards the rear, or stern of the ship, which had a large cabin with a closed door. On the left side of the door was another hatch that sat open, leading to more stairs going down. He looked around, searching for an escape route, and saw nothing but the sea. They had already left land far behind, and the wind was carrying them swiftly westward.
One of the men pulled a curved sword out of a sheath, and held it at his back, while the other man held the rope hanging from his hands and led him like a dog on a leash down a flight of stairs that was about half as long as the one he had come up, occasionally tugging, almost causing him to trip. He was still a bit woozy, and the rocking of the ship didn't do any favors when it came to him keeping his balance. He had been unconscious for what looked like half a day, judging by the sun.
As his eyes readjusted to the darkness, the sights and smells that assaulted his senses were almost enough to make him retch again. At least forty prisoners sat on benches, their ankles chained to the floor, their hands shackled to large oar handles that were about as thick as his wrists. They protruded eight feet into the hold from either side; most of the oars had two prisoners chained to them, while some benches were vacant. The benches had oval holes cut in them that led to the bilges down below, and the smells that came from them betrayed their purpose.
He was dragged to one of the benches, and sat down close to the aisle that ran down the middle of the room. The other occupant of the bench was a slender, frail-looking older elf, his skin a very pale, almost blue color. The oars were not currently in use, and the ends were tucked under metal hooks on the floor, keeping the paddles clear of the water. The room itself was dank, damp feeling, and smelled horrific; just being on the oar deck filled Elias with a sense of dread and panic.
The prisoners either stared at the handle of the oar in front of them or watched him with vacant, expressionless faces as his hands were clamped with manacles. The chain that connected them ran through a metal eye that was bolted to the oar, securing him in place, while his ankles were manacled to the floor in a similar fashion. Only then were the ropes that bound his wrists cut off, and he could feel the blood flow return to his hands.
The two men left him without any further ceremony, and beyond a few furtive glances, most of the oarslaves ignored him as well. His benchmate, however, kept turning his head to stare at Elias. He examined his surroundings and his situation. If he spread his hands as far as the chain of his manacles allowed him to, he could get them as far apart as his shoulders were wide. His feet, on the other hand, could barely stretch out past the oar. He could tuck them under his bench on either side of the tube that the hole he sat over led down, but not much more than that. He was quite effectively anchored in place.
Elias moved his attention to the rest of the room. It looked as if the room he was in took up the vast majority of this level of the ship. There were fifteen oars on either side of the room, each about eight feet apart. His oar was near the stern of the ship, on the port side, third from the back. The deck was bout thirty feet wide, from port to starboard, eight feet of which were taken up on either side with the benches for the oarslaves. There were hinged grates in their deck, leading to the hold below, and above those were solid wooden doors leading to the upper deck.
Support beams rose from the floor up to the low ceiling at the end of each bench, supporting a heavy wooden framework that the deck sat upon. At the front of the room was a single large drum with a stool on the bow side. Two leather wrapped sticks were hanging from a nail driven into a nearby support. Elias assumed that this was for keeping rhythm when the slaves were actively rowing. In the area between the rows of benches were grates that looked as if they could open to allow access to the cargo deck below, with similar trap doors above, though those were solid, blocking out almost all the light from the sun.
“Greetings.” It was the older elf that he was sitting next to. “My name is Marl.”
Elias continued examining the room, looking for any way he could break free. “I am Elias.”
“Now is not a very good time to try to free yourself.”
Elias turned to look back at Marl. “What?”
Marl shook his head. “Not right now. The men aboard this ship are always more vigilant, more ready to kill right after they've taken new slaves onto the ship. It keeps the rest of us in line.”
“I've got to get out of here!”
Marl nodded slowly. “Absolutely. We all do. But we can get out of here alive, or we can get thrown overboard with a knife in our throats. I, for one, want to go home.”
Their short conversation was interrupted by Elias's companions being dragged in, one at a time, and chained to oars. Most of them looked somewhat battered, as if they had struggled. Martin looked the worst for wear, his face and hair covered in blood, and his left earlobe torn and puffy. He had apparently put up more of a fight after Elias had been escorted out. Shortly, all of the empty spaces were filled, save two. An elderly man three oars up from him, and an emaciated young woman across the aisle were both alone at their oars.
The last man to be brought in was Jonas. He walked more than he was dragged or pushed, leading the two men that were escorting him. He started to sit by the old man, but before he could even take a seat, one of his escorts, a skinny man in faded, multicolored clothes, hauled on the rope his wrists were tied to, almost bowling him over. Jonas recovered his feet, glaring at the man who almost knocked him down. “Alright, alright, princess, where would ya have me sit, then?”
The pirate glared, baring his teeth. “You mouthy son of a whore!” he spat, punching Jonas square in the stomach, doubling the mercenary over. Jonas coughed and struggled to keep his feet as he was hauled to his bench. As he was being shackled to the oar, he turned to look at the man who had punched him, a cheeky grin on his face.
“A son of a whore, am I? I didn't know you and I were brothers!”
The pirate looked at him for a moment, confused.
Jonas sighed. “I mean your mother's a whore too.”
It took a moment for the flicker of understanding to cross the pirate's face, and when it did, it was quickly replaced by anger. He seized the front of Jonas's shirt and struck him three times before Jonas tried to hold up his hands to protect himself.
“Alright, alright! I take it back! Your mother is a fine woman from a noble household!”
The pirate grabbed Jonas by the neck, his long, dirty fingernails digging in. “You're not sorry yet, you mincy, nancy little fairy! But you will be.“ He lifted Jonas slightly from his seat, his gapped teeth bared in Jonas's face. Jonas tried to turn away, presumably from the smell of the pirate's breath.
Elias pulled hard on his wrist chains, but they held firm. He had never felt so helpless before, watching his comrades get beaten and abused. They were part of a band, a group, and he wasn't able to come to their aid. A slender hand gripped his wrist, and Marl whispered to him.
“Now is not the time. Don't give them an excuse to kill him.”
“That's enough.” The voice of the well-dressed man rose over the sounds of struggle. He stood not far from the pirate attacking Jonas; Elias recognized him from the room where he had regained his senses. He had entered the deck so quietly that Elias hadn't seen or heard him until he spoke.
“Turn him loose. If you injure him too badly, he won't be fit to row, and we will need all the backs we can get. Woodsetter failed to fill his promise this time around.“ The man looked o
ver at Elias for a moment, narrowing his eyes, then walked back towards the stairs. “Gab, you're needed on deck. Get up there now. We're four weeks from Greenreef, and we weren't able to replace some of the weaker slaves. If we want to make any sort of good time, we'll need every inch of sail we've got.“
Gab, the pirate who had been beating Jonas, turned back to him, glaring daggers. The foul breathed man spat into Jonas's face and dropped him, storming up the stairs. As the hatch slammed down over the stairs, Jonas hunched over, doing his best to wipe his eyes off on the sleeve of his tunic.
Turning his head, he saw Elias watching the exchange. With a lopsided grin, he chuckled quietly. “Well now. Isn't this a pretty pickle we're in. Looks like we're going to Greenreef.”
Chapter Nine
? Summer Moon, Year 4368
The days passed slowly for Elias and the oarslaves. If the winds were strong, their oars were hooked on the floor, keeping them suspended above the waves, allowing the wind to bear them across the sea. If the winds were slow, then they rowed. The drum at the front of the oar deck beat a steady rhythm, every stroke falling on the fourth beat. If they were moving too slowly, the beats fell faster, and they rowed faster. Never did the beat slow; it only stopped when they were allowed to sleep.
The slaves were fed once a day, at dawn. Leftovers from the pirates' meal the night before was common for them, thrown into a pot with water, slurried up and served as a mush in wooden bowls. At first, Elias and some of the mercenaries refused to eat the revolting concoction, but by the third day, most of them had relented.
Most conversation was squelched by the two guards that sat at a table in the front of the room no matter what hour of the day it was. If they were rowing, the two guards paced up and down the aisles, berating or whipping any rower who didn't keep rhythm with the drums.
The new slaves seemed to be the most punished, which was not surprising. They yelled out at their captors from time to time with bursts of anger and resistance. These were met with cudgels and short whips. Martin, as beaten and bloodied as he was, seemed to put up the most consistent fight, while Geoff, who was chained on the bench next to him, more or less kept his head down and rowed.
Jonas was more conservative, keeping mostly to himself. He had been sat next to the one female oarslave, a slender, lanky woman with dusky skin and thick, curly black locks. She kept her head bowed at all times, her face hidden behind the tangled curtain of her long hair. The only sounds she ever made was a slight humming while she slept, leaning against the back of her bench. It was a song without any real tune or melody, repeating at random intervals.
All the slaves in the hold were human, except for Elias and Marl. While Marl was slender and lanky, Elias's greater size and strength more than made up for it while they rowed. As they rowed, they were able to communicate in short, broken conversations. Marl was from Greenreef, the main island of the chain they were sailing to. He had been captured and pressed into service six months prior, while traveling along the coast north of Greatport.
“Why did you come to the mainland?” Elias found that conversation, inasmuch as they could manage, kept him from despairing at their situation.
“I was searching for someone,” Marl spoke between gasps and grunts, straining against the oar as they rowed. “Our prophecies speak of a savior from across the sea, a great warrior who will lead us against the men who have stolen our islands and lives from us.“
Elias heaved against the oar, propelling it along with the rhythm of the drummer. “Did you find the warrior?”
Marl shook his head, resting a moment with his hands on the oar as Elias rowed. “No. There were many great warriors, but none of them cared for our plight, and the gods led me to nobody while I was there.” He shook his head, perspiration dripping from his brow. “All I want to do now is go home, with or without finding the one who will fulfill the prophecy. I miss my family, I miss my gods, and I miss my islands.”
Elias related the story of how he left Brynjar's stronghold at the foot of the Stromgard mountain, and his travels with the mercenaries. He told Marl of the greatness of King Brynjar, the challenges facing Brandt, and his flight from the land of the Northmen. Marl seemed particularly interested in the dark knight that attacked Elias on the road.
“So you have no idea who this figure is, or what he wanted?”
Elias shook his head. “The only idea I have is that he wore the same symbol on his armor that the Felle Army scouts had on their coins, and an iron medallion. That makes me believe he is with them.”
Marl pondered for a moment as they worked. “What did the symbol look like?”
Elias grunted, hauling on the oar handle. “It was a star with eight points, set in a circle, with a red stone at the center. The sign was stamped on the coins, and embossed into the knight's breastplate.”
Marl nodded his head. “I've seen that shape before. It is worn by certain men from the mainland. Not all of the men wear them, only some of them. I think they are soldiers or mercenaries that travel with the pirates.”
A cane struck a beam near Elias. One of the pirates walking up and down the aisle barked out, “Less yakking, more rowing, or next time my rod finds flesh!”
~ ~ ~
13th Waning Summer Moon, Year 4368
Four weeks went by, with almost no change to their surroundings or their situation. Elias was intimately familiar with the pattern of the wood grain on his oar. His hands were growing even more calloused than they had been before, though he had gained a number of blisters and sores from the shackles around his wrists and ankles.
Some other unfortunate soul had etched marks into the seat next to him, though the tally marks came without legend. Days? Weeks? Months? Certainly not years. Most of the marks had been worn away by subsequent slaves and their backsides. About a week in, he decided to revive the practice, even if only to salvage a part of his sanity by marking the passage of time. There was a link on the chain that bound his left wrist to the oar that had a metal bur on it. If he moved his right hand as close as he could to the eye that the chain ran through, he could scratch the bench with the bur.
Always his mind churned on how to escape. He was keeping his wits about him, but just barely. The cramped quarters were the most miserable he had ever been in, and he found himself longing for the open shade of the coastal forests near the bay. Fresh air would be a gift in the murky dank of the oar deck.
He needed to unlock these chains, if he was to get loose. His hands were shackled to the oar and couldn't reach any of the guards as they walked up and down the aisle between the benches, so snatching the keys or throttling the guards was not an option.
The days that he rowed were back breaking, but surprisingly bearable with the broken conversations he was able to have with Marl. He hadn't lost his will to break free. The sight of his comrades losing their hope broke his heart, but it didn't break his spirit. Every time he looked over and saw Martin's beaten and bloody back, he steeled his resolve.
The days he wasn't rowing, however, were torture. Hour after hour of just sitting on his bench, staring forward. Too much movement would attract the attention of the guards, which resulted in beatings. He was trapped in his head, on this boat. He needed something to keep his mind busy.
He constantly studied his surroundings, searching for something he could use to break loose, but there were many other factors to consider. The fact that he was not a sailor and had absolutely no idea how to sail a ship once he broke loose was a major one, as well as no way to coordinate with the other captives while the guards were present, which was always.
His oar was anchored to the hull of the ship by eye bolts driven through both the oar and the hull. A short length of chain, about a foot long, connected the two with a lock, so the oar could not be pushed through and lost overboard. However, the years of rowing had taken their toll on the thick handle of the oar. It had been worn down from the constant rubbing against the iron-clad rim of the hole that acted as the pivot point
of the oar. It was still thick at the point where it had worn the most, but only about half as thick as the rest of the handle.
There were few times that the slaves were unsupervised. When the guards changed, there was usually a four or five minute gap, sometimes longer, as the replacements would arrive to relieve the current shift. These shift changes seemed to happen fairly consistently, around feeding time, shortly after noon, and a few hours after dark. This made Elias wonder if there was a dwarven clock somewhere on board. There were few other devices that were as accurate for telling time,
It was an hour or two past dusk on the first day of the fifth week since they had been captured. Elias leaned back, his hands in his lap, while Marl slumped forward, resting his head on his arms, and his arms on the oar. The oars were currently held in place by the steel catch in the floor between the ends of the benches that kept the paddles suspended above the waves.
Elias could hear the pounding of feet on the deck above him. That was not an uncommon sound, though it was normally a bit less active at this time of night. He stared forward, listening to the waves lapping against the sides of the ship and the muffled voices overhead. A man bearing a lantern came down the stairs, and hollered at the guard in the front of the room.
“Oi! Cap'n broke out the rum! We'll make Greenreef by dawn! Come up on deck, we've got roast pig and lemon biscuits, and Durk has his fiddle.”
The pirate looked over the slaves, and pointed to the woman sitting next to Jonas. “Bring her, too. The Cap'n wants 'er cleaned up for him.“
None of the other oarslaves reacted, not even the woman who was pointed at. Nobody, that is, except for Jonas. Elias could see the tension building in the man's shoulders and the sudden sharpness of his gaze. Apprehension and tension filled him as he watched and waited.
Rising Thunder (Dynasty of Storms Book 1) Page 10