Slave of the Sea (The Chronicles of Salt and Blood Book 1)

by Dawn Dagger

  Slave of the Sea

  Dawn Dagger

  Copyright © 2020 Dawn Dagger

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Printed by Amazon/ KDP, in the United States of America.

  First printing, 2020.

  Cover Copyright © 2020 Savanah J.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  1596 Post Great War

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Glossary

  This book is dedicated to Hope Ann, Kellyn Roth, Alex, Daleen, and Savannah.

  1596 Post Great War

  Summer has ended in the southern regions of the world. Avondella prepares for its Sun Festival as the days turn towards Autumn, and many forgien visitors are flooding the ports in preparation for this event. Chingon continues its peaceful anti-war stance, and has not been seen on the waters since early Spring. Onirion’s ports are yet closed, as they have been in the last ten years. Raiders and thieves cross the dark waters, but few ships return. Atraria refuses to speak of the state of Onirion after the coup. As the bull raises its head in the sky and the great summer bear sets down the world from her paws to go hibernate, Ronartion and Keshnite continue to tensely argue treaties and trade agreements. Utonopia stays quiet, as always. Utonopian spice traders have all but gone home, fleeing far from the cold that creeps across the southern regions of the world. The elves, as always, have not been seen. Whispers say that the elves will join Avondella in the Sun Festival, but no one knows if this is the truth.

  The Red Running Royalty and its notorious Captain Guy were last seen outside of Bandolinda, rumored to be on some sort of scouting or trade mission, but has not been seen for the remainder of the summer. The Ragining Ghost and Scarlett Vexx have terrorizing the seas, targeting ships going to Dreanis and coming from the continent of Istanbul. The Black Plague has not been seen leaving the port of Ronartion for the summer, which leaves many country leaders and business owners uneasy. What does it mean for Kethaltar, that the warring military captain Mashha’j has not sailed the seas as long as the Chingonesse have not?

  Chapter 1

  Wagon wheels creaked, splashing through murky puddles. Wrought iron doors whined and whips cracked. There were moans and screams and the rattle of chains all around Levanine, the noise dampened by the thick, grey fog that surrounded her own cage.

  Levanine covered her ears as a shrill scream split the air. "Let me go!" A young girl begged. Deeper shouts echoed after its crying. Levanine closed her eyes tightly, curling closer to herself. She shivered in cell, not daring to look up another cry rippled through the murk.

  She was cold and damp in the rusted cage she laid in. The ropes that burned her wrists were waterlogged, and the cobble beneath her pressed slick against her skin.

  Although her cage had no roof, she dared not try and escape. She had seen what had happened to those who had. Besides, she had no money. Nowhere to go. So, Levanine kept her head down, and her hands over her ears, and prayed.

  Levanine did not pray for anything specific. Not for freedom, nor for death. She just prayed. The muttering in her head helped drown out the screams of the girls and boys being tormented and sold like cattle, and it reminded her of the monks she had seen once in a temple. They had dressed in white robes inlaid with gold stitching.

  They prayed to Saint Lucien and Saint Solielen for protection over their souls and for knowledge to save those souls who were lost. It was the most vibrant and peaceful memory she had, and she did everything she could to hang onto it. Maybe she ought to pray to the saints as well. She knew not how to save her soul.

  Levanine brought herself up onto her knees as shadows began to materialize out of the fog, murmuring in low tones. They were coming toward her cage. She sat up shakily, as she had been commanded to when a man was to examine them, and stared at the ground.

  The purveyor, a fat man with golden teeth, and a grisly, sea worn sailor approached her cell.

  “Now, this one’s a beauty.” The slave merchant, a man by the name of Tethaff, purred, gesturing to Levanine. “All you have to do is wash her off. She’s strong and healthy.” He was lying through his teeth, Levanine could tell. He did not find her beautiful. That’s why she was not with the young girls and the healthier women. She could see the sea-man did not believe his words either.

  This did not bother her. She had been here since the early spring. She could wait until she died, or until she was purchased as easy labor.

  “I’m sure she’d make a good Indulgence for yourself or your crew. Or she’ll make you a fine dirma in another market.” She watched as the doubt in the sailor’s frown twisted into a conniving look. What market did he dream he could sell her in?

  The markets of people in Bandolinda were illegal, as they were in Harothway. Was he imagining Ronartion? No, they would sooner kill a girl than purchase one.

  Levanine felt her heart throbbing in her ears, her skin prickling. She was no longer safe, protected by her own lack in weight and cleanliness, if he believed he could sell her Saints-knew-where.

  Levanine’s eyes turned to the soiled straw beneath her, no longer being able to face that sick gaze. She’d never been sold as a sex slave before. She’d been a maid, a slave, a healer’s apprentice. A prize to be won in an archery match, just to say they had won a girl, and then used her naught but for laundry.

  She’d been a number of things, but she’d always managed to escape this fate.

  The sea-man rubbed his bristly chin, puckering his lips. “Hmm…” He was not actually pondering. She knew men and beasts well enough to know that he had already decided. He knew exactly where to put her and what to do with her and where, eventually, when he was done having her his way, he was going to sell her as a broken slave of sex and drugs.

  Levanine felt herself begin to tremble and she swallowed thickly. The fog carried heavy tension as she waited for the man to say he wanted her and for he and the purveyor to begin bargaining a price.

  Levanine wished her hands would stop shaking. They always shook, no matter what she was doing or how she felt, but it still gave the sea-man more to look forward too, if he thought she was frightened. Levanine wished she was more brave. Maybe if she were, she would not be here.

  Just as the sea-man opened his mouth to offer for her, a large, black figure materialized. The silhouette wore a long, hooded cowl, and his boots clicked as he approached the trio. “I’ll buy her,” the deep voice commanded. Her heart twisted with worry.

  “I saw her first.” The first pirate snarled, looking insulted that this stranger would believe he could snatch away his prize.

  Levanine had seen thi
s before: two or more men fighting over a girl they thought would be good for pleasure, or would fetch a high price. Never had she imagined she would be fought over. She did not have the puckered lips and combed hair and airs of confidence the others had that made them targets.

  She did not tempt men into purchasing her, begging for something other than a dirty cage.

  Her heart was pounding so hard that she believed it might crack her rib cage, and her skin burned. Images of what was to come, no matter who bought her, made her throat constrict.

  “I am going to buy her,” The newcomer said again, his voicing giving no room for argument.

  Tethaff tilted his head. “Well… The starting price is 100 dirmas for her.” His lips pulled into a smirk.

  Levanine hoped the price would edge the men off. Most slaves were worth 50 or so dirmas, and the best ones were around 80. Nearly no slave sold for 100 dirmas, especially not greasy prison rats with no experience, such as herself.

  Levanine, starved, gaunt, weak, and with shaking hands was neither good for work or for pleasure. She was not worth the 100 dirmas the man was placing as the starting price.

  She prayed, silently this time, that the men would consider this and leave. She prayed to Saint Solielen, and to Odobenus the bear constellation, who she believed watched over her.

  “200,” The sea-man offered, raising his scruffy chin.

  Levanine realized, suddenly, that this was not about her at all. No, the money was a show of force between the two men; an unannounced competition.

  It felt as if her heart plummeted into her stomach as her hope of being left alone was ripped from her. She was now the ribbon prize for whomever could produce the most money.

  A part of her begged whomever won would kill her in the fury of losing so many dirmas on something so worthless, when they discovered she new naught what she was doing, and could barely lift herself.

  The cloaked stranger smiled, showing perfectly white teeth that seemed to glow despite the fog. They were the only thing visible in the shadows of his cowl. “500.”

  Levanine’s head shot up despite herself as Tethaff’s eyes grew wider than the three moons. 500 dirmas was unheard of for a slave. That was the price of a fine racehorse or warhorse of great breeding. The price of food for a mountain village for an entire winter. The price of marble flooring in the worship room of a cathedral.

  Not the price of any slave, or any group of slaves.

  Not even the price of winning a competition.

  A jump in price like that was nearly impossible to believe, unless, of course, this cloaked stranger was bluffing.

  He must be.

  “You don’t have even have 250 dirmas to pay for the girl.” Tethaff sneered, his eyebrows furrowing. His gaze held threats in it. The sea-man beside him crossed his arms impatiently.

  The man (she assumed he was a man, by the build and his being there) reached into his cloak slowly, then pulled out a shimmering coin. He dropped it in the slave merchant’s outstretched hand. It was a half daermach. Tethaff flipped the coin over in his palm, then bit down on the side.

  He gave a grin that half- delight and half disbelief, then he pocketed the coin. He fished in his tunic for half a moment, before pulling out a large key ring full of jingling keys. Levanine crawled back from the cell door as he tried a couple keys in the keyhole. The sea-man, cursing wretchedly under his breath, turned on his heal, then marched, after some new prize.

  Finally a key slid into the hole and the lock clicked. Tethaff pulled open the iron wrought door with a mock bow, then sauntered off in his own direction. Levanine could see his precious coin glinting in the fog as he tossed it into the air, whistling a cheerful tune that did not belong on the groaning docks of Dreanis.

  The man in the cowl stood in the doorway of the cage, his arms crossed, staring down at her as she pressed herself back against the bars. She wished he would break the tense partial-silence, but she was afraid if he did she would not hear him over the thundering of her own heart.

  A half daermach. What rich lord or prince had purchased her, and why was he on Dreanis? Why would someone with so much money to spare not simply buy women that were cleaner or more beautiful? Ones trained by mistresses to be perfect icons of pleasure? Ones that were more accessible, on his own continent?

  The lord reached forward suddenly and grabbed her arm, jerking her to her feet. She yelped and instinctively pulled away, but his hold was firm. He half drug her out of her cage, heading away from the market and towards the smog covered city. Levanine’s steps faltered and slipped as she tried to walk quickly to make up for his long, purposeful strides.

  When purchased, there were only two options one had. One could fight and try to run away and make everything worse for themselves, or they could obey and bite their tongue until they completely lost their voice, determined to make it bearable for themselves.

  Levanine did not want to earn a box to the ears, so she tried not to resist as she walked alongside her new master. Her mind was racing so quickly that no thoughts would form, so she instead stumbled along beside him, shying out of the way of other figures marching through the smog.

  Her teeth clattered together as they walked on. She yelped and jerked to a stop as they walked across broken glass. She grit her teeth against the pain in her heels, then gasped as the stranger grabbed both of her arms and, in one swift, terrifying motion, lifted her over the glass as his boots crunched across it, then dropped her back onto the street. She stumbled, glass still cutting into her heels, but did not lose her balance.

  “Will you calm down?” He growled, jerking her back towards him as she slipped on a wet rock and lost her balance. “You shaking like a beggar’s penance cup is not going to help us get out of here any quicker.”

  Levanine was surprised by his words, in spite of her fear. Slave owners either drank in the desperate terror, or ignored it, lost in their own plans for the warm body. Despite his short lecture, Levanine couldn’t control the shaking in her limbs.

  The man sidestepped a pile of trash, jerking her quickly sideways, then groaned irritably. “This place is disgusting.”

  Just as Levanine’s mind began to wonder where they were headed, if anywhere, her master veered sharply to the left. He climbed the leaning stairs and stepped into a dark building, leaving the door open behind him.

  The building was small and dark. A smile fire crackled in the crumbling hearth against the wall, and the men inside sat around circular tables, their hunched figures only barely outlined by the firelight. They flicked decks of cards and quietly tossed coins. No one bothered to look at them as they passed between the tables and the man took a seat at the bar counter.

  Levanine stood beside him, suddenly feeling that this lord must be very stupid, or very drunk. Surely he had not spent a half daermach on her only to pawn her off to the barkeep. Didn’t this stranger know the bartender could go and buy women himself, not through others? Didn’t he know that he would make none of his money back?

  Levanine weakly wrapped her arms around herself as the man let go of her and ordered ale in hushed tones. The warmth of the hearth didn’t reach them, and the wind whistled through cracks in the building’s foundation.

  “I told you to calm down.” The man grumbled, not looking at her as he reached for the mug presented to him. Levanine opened her mouth to speak, but clamped it tightly shut, knowing better. The man drained the mug of ale in three swallows, then set it down. “Speak.”

  She blinked, unsure if she had heard him right. Speak? “I-I, ah,” she stammered, trying to remember how to form words with her tongue and cracked lips, “it isn’t fright, Master.” A shiver passed through her body like a phantom, pricking gooseflesh across her dirty arms, “I-I’m very cold.”

  He grunted, then waved the bartender back over. “Give her something to warm her,” he commanded.

  The bartender nodded wordlessly, disappearing.

  “Well?” The man dema
nded irritably, still refusing to look at her. “Sit.”

  Levanine climbed onto the stool beside her buyer, trying to make sense of her situation. The bartender returned with a tin mug that steamed as he set it before her. She let the steam curl away, afraid to drink the hot liquid and burn herself. She still could not see her master’s face, hidden in the shadows of his cowl.

  “So, who is she?” The bartender began to clean a beat up mug, his lips twitching with an eagerness for gossip. “Did you finally get yourself an Indulgence?”

  “Who she is and what she is for is none of your business, Tender.” His voice held enough threat that Levanine herself stopped wondering her purpose for a moment. He swirled his last bit of ale as Levanine cautiously picked up her metal mug. “And I’d prefer to have ale that isn’t mostly water.”

  The bartender clenched his jaw, his cheeks blooming red under his unkempt beard and Levanine sipped her own drink. It tasted like spice and strong apples in the worst way. The drink burned her tongue and throat, but she gulped it down anyways because it warmed her body.

  She shuddered as she set the metal cup down from the taste and the way it felt heavy in her belly, but she did not mind terribly. She felt warmer, certainly, and her stomach had something other than itself to gnaw on. Levanine folded her hands politely, and stared at the grainy countertop. She waited.

  A figure crossed the bar suddenly, standing beside the man. He placed his forearms on the counter and leaned close, speaking in hushed tones. “Will you be needing more men for the ship, sire?”

  The man shook his head, pulling a coin out of his pocket and handing it to the man. “Thank you for your assistance. The supplies are all ready?” The newcomer nodded. “Wonderful. You’re dismissed.”

  The man nodded and pocketed the coin, disappearing in the direction he had come from. The man in the cowl continued to drink, staring into nothing. Levanine assumed he was deep in thought. She began to wonder what country he was from. He was called sire. He certainly wasn’t from Bandolinda, was he? She would have figured she might have recognized his voice. He wasn’t tall enough to be an elf…