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

by Dawn Dagger

  “Oh, man… Oh, man…” Silva was moaning to himself, one hand on his own head, stumbling in small circles.

  “What’s the matter?” Levanine groaned, turning her attention from the blood on her finger tips to Silva.

  “I didn’t mean to wreck the Royalty!” His high voice pitched. “I tried my hardest! Oh, he’s going to whip me, won’t he? The Captain is going to be so angry! Maybe I should just pretend that I fell overboard and died, and he won’t notice, and he won’t whip me for doing badly!” A shudder passed through him as he blabbered and scrubbed with his sleeve at the blood on his chin.

  Levanine put a hand on his bicep- half to comfort him and half to steady herself as the world swirled around her. “You did fine, Silva. I’m sure he won’t whip you. No one died.” Rakifi nodded in agreeance.

  He opened his mouth to protest, but the Captain’s angry voice shouted, “Silva! Levanine! Stop having yourselves a night and get down here, you gutter rats!”

  Silva went pale and Levanine grimaced. “Well, um, now you don’t have to worry about hiding from him…” Rakfi said.

  The trio crossed over to the side of the ship and looked down. They could not see the beach below due to the fog, but this did not cause Rakifi to hesitate. He swung himself over the side and dropped down far below, disappearing in the mist.

  Silva lowered himself down before Levanine. She could not see him, and was afraid she was going to fall and break herself. Levanine took a deep breath, hoping her vision would stop swirling, and leaned over the side, trying to find a hold.

  “It’s alright!” Silva’s voice floated up through the mist. “I’ll catch you if you fall! Just climb down!”

  Levanine held tight to the rope, her arms trembling from the exertion, her palms burning. She shakily pulled one hand off, in an attempt to climb down, but she lost her hold a second time. She screamed as she fell.

  Silva caught her hard, stumbling in the sand. He fell backwards heavily, landing on his behind and dropping her. He gave her an apologetic look.

  Levanine stood up and brushed off the oversized shirt she still wore, smearing it with small streaks of red. Silva stood beside her, looking around.

  The sand of the beach was pebble-covered and a weird obsidian color, leaving her with an uneasy feeling. A mass of dark crags and caves towered above them, obscuring most of the black-grey sky. The mist continued to twist around their heads, hissing softly. This mist was grey, and did not stink as the mist on the ship had.

  Silva and Levanine crunched up to where the sailors had already set up a pile of kindling in the back of a large cave. Someone tipped a lantern to the wood in an attempt to catch fire. Eventually the flames sprung up. They cast strange shadows, and the fire flickered in the whistling breezes that chased one another from one tunnel to another along the edges of the cave.

  Levanine hugged herself, chilly. The Captain was snapping orders to the other sailors, who were quickly hustling off to do as he commanded.

  “Silva, Braxton, Kasha!” He snapped, turning to them. Levanine noticed Silva go white, the hold he held on her arm tightening enough to make her wince. “Go get pans and some cooking materials from the ship.”

  “Aye, Cap’n!” They saluted and quickly went off.

  Levanine was cold and lonely without the presence of the nervous boy beside her. The sudden loneliness was something she had never felt, and it made her feel lost. Levanine held still, not wishing to be noticed or scolded, ignoring the tickling against her forehead as blood dripped slowly down into her brow.

  “Levanine, get started on supper.” He snapped, turning to her.

  She stared at him blankly for a second, then blinked slowly. What had he said? She forgot almost the instant he had spoken it. Her head was pounding so fiercely. “Pardon?” Her eyes blurred and she moved one hand to rub them.

  “You were a maid, weren’t you? Or were you useless at that too? Get started on supper! You can’t possibly be stupid enough to fail at that!” His voice was bitter and hard, and cut into her chest so sharply that it stole the breath from her lungs. He stepped toward her. “Are you stupid, Levanine?!”

  Levanine flinched, raising her hands. “N-no. I am not stupid, sire. A-Aye, Captain. I’ll make something now.” She ducked away from his glowering figure and all but ran up into the cave.

  Silva, Braxton, and Rakifi returned quickly, unceremoniously drumping a large pot, a cast iron pan, and a handful of utensils onto the gravel beside the fire. Levanine determined she would make some sort of soup, or stew, once she figured what rations they had.

  Levanine set the metal stakes that had been dropped with the utensils up on either side of the fire. She hugged her arms around the large pot, and tried to lift the pot. It was far too heavy for her. Curses! She thought, hoping no one was watching her struggle. By the Saints!

  Someone crunched in the gravel as their hurried footsteps approached, and she looked up to see Rakifi trotting toward her. He placed his hands on the sides of the pot without a word, lifting it. His face strained as he lifted it, but he did not act as if it were heavy. He planted it firmly on the metal stakes.

  “You’re in charge of dinner?” He asked, turning to her and wiping the black soot from his palms onto his trousers.

  “Mhm.” She nodded. She tugged on her sleeve, “Ah, the Captain believes I’m too stupid to do much else. I was a maid.”

  Rakifi nodded. “Ah, well, I’m sure it’ll be lovely.” He gave her a soft smile. “What are you planning?”

  “Stew. I have to see what supplies we have yet. I’m going to need water first. I’ll need to start gathering water from the beach, I suppose...” She was feeling quite funny in her head, but would not ask for help. She did not want yelled at.

  “You’ll use the ocean water?” He rose a brow, turning to look at the black sea brushing against the black sand. He looked doubtful.

  “Boiling it will help clean it, and we shouldn’t use fresh water if we don’t have to… It’ll taste disgusting, but it won’t hurt us if we only eat it once… Unless you’ve seen a sort of brook?”

  Rakifi shook his head. “No water the island so far. I’ll have Braxton help me and we will get some ocean water for you.” He paused, narrowing his eyes. “Maybe you should sit down. You’re looking a little pale.”

  Everyone looked pale on the strange half-light of the eerie island, but Levanine nodded and sat down slowly, the world spinning. She watched through blurred vision as Braxton and Rakifi brought panfuls of salt water, filling up the pot. When the pot was a little over half full, they left a bundle and one last pan of water beside the fire, then took their leave.

  Levanine pushed herself to her feet and, using a rag that had been thrown close by, began to clean the crusted cut on her forehead with the salt water. She hissed as the cut stung, but she was more glad that it could be cleaned than she was bothered by the pain.

  The last time she had not been able to clean a wound, she had gotten an infection so badly she had gotten blood poisoning. She was religious about cleaning all cuts and wounds, now.

  Levanine kept an eye on the pot and the men going about their tasks. A pair of them carried in a large bundle of burlap cloth that she realized was one of the sails. They piled the sail in one of the coves of the cave. They left and one returned with a large ball of twine and a needle that was very nearly the size of a knife.

  “The Captain wants you to sew the sail, wench.” One of the men growled, dropping the supplies at her feet and getting a good look across her before leaving. His gaze made her feel sick, but she ignored the bile in her throat and picked up the supplies.

  Levanine settled beside the sail and pulled at the cloth until she found the beginning of one of the fresh tears, caused by the recent storm. It took a few times, but she managed to thread the needle with her thick twine, then carefully began to sew the tear.

  Soon, her back was burning from stooping, and her fingers bled as her shaking hands
pricked them with the needle by mistake. For every three stitches she made, it seemed she had to pull out two in an attempt to sew a straight stitch. It was infuriating.

  She hated her shaking hands.

  When she finally grew tired of attempting to sew the sail, when her face burned with anger and her fingers were bright red and blood speckled, she stood and returned to the pot, which had begun to boil.

  She picked up a large, wooden spoon and stirred the bubbling water, praying that the heat was killing any strange impurities that might infect the water around the island. Upon inspection, the bundle was a cheesecloth full of herbs.

  Levanine picked out a few sprigs of herb that did not have rot climbing their leaves and tossed them into the hot water. Within a few moments, two sailors, Ska and Awla, she believed she remembered their names being, tossed a four grotesque rats the size of her head at her feet.

  “That’s all the meat we could find.” The one with the fierce, amber eyes, (yes, Awla) grumbled.

  Levanine nodded and gingerly grabbed the arm-length tails of the creatures, peering at them. They had open mouths full of sores and large, yellow front teeth. She could not find their eyes, if they had any. Their large feet were gnarled and with brittle claws.

  “What?” Ska spat. “Never seen a rat before, atshan?”

  “I was making sure it did not have rabies.” She replied sharply, offended by him calling her a weak girl. Before he could say anything else, she grabbed the empty iron pan and quickly moved out of the cave.

  Levanine settled beside the quietly lapping, black water and began to skin the large rats with the dagger that had been left in the pan. She took care to whittle the meat off the bones of the creatures, placing the meat in the pan and the bones in a haphazard pile beside her knee.

  Their congealed, dark blood stunk worse than their pelts and stung the fresh cuts on her hands, she ignored the pain. Soon enough she had finished the four rats, and was rather satisfied with how well she had been able to skin them.

  Levanine stood and stretched carefully before tucking as many clean bones as she could beneath her arm. She picked up the pan of meat and the knife, starting toward the cave. She left the mess of fur and intestines behind.

  Levanine dumped the bones into the pot and let them boil in the water. While they began a sort of broth she turned and stooped beside the basin of salt water. She washed her hands with fervent care, scrubbing her cuts until they bled fresh, being sure not to leave any trace of the dark blood, save the stains on her hands.

  She left the cave, dumped the pan of dirty water into the ocean, then gathered a fresh pan of salt water. She returned to the cave, then dumped the meat in.

  Working helped keep her mind occupied. As she worked, she could pretend she was the handsome, young hunter that often flirted with her in the small village of Ionis, carefully skinning creatures to feed his equally beautiful sisters and mother. She could cook and pretend she was Braxton, or even the pastry man that travelled along the streets in the city, pushing his bright pink cart and never seeming quite sober.

  Working let her be everyone but herself. It kept her safe.

  “Yer gonna starve us?” A growling voice suddenly demanded, all too close. Levanine jumped and wheeled around. One of the pirates was glaring at her, his hand on the dagger at his hip. “If you think that yer gonna give us nothing but bone water and take all of the meat for yerself, you wench, I’ll stick ya through!”

  “Do you want to have stew that is edible or stew that is about as good as your chances of living when I’m done beating you to a pulp for touching my wench?” A voice suddenly growled, interrupting Levanine’s meek protest.

  The man turned, his eyes widening, and ducked his head as he saw the Captain approaching. Tail tucked between his legs like a whipped dog, he quickly retreated out of the cave.

  Levanine felt the Captain’s gaze burning into her shoulders as she fished the bleached bones from the boiling water and dumped in the meat of the rats. She watched the boiling pot for a moment, then turned to look at him.

  “Aye?” She asked softly. He must want something if he was standing there for so long.

  “The stew smells alright. It’s done?”

  “Aye.”

  “I’ll send in the men.”

  Levanine nodded and continued to tend her stew, feeling awfully like a witch. Standing before a boiling pot with bloodied hands, stench and mist just hanging in the air.

  For a moment, Levanine was frightened she might just be a witch without knowing it! But she then realized witches were haggard and ugly and had stooped backs, and, although Levanine could admit she wasn’t too terribly pretty, she definitely wasn’t wrinkled, and her spine was straight.

  The men slowly began to file in, sitting in a haphazard circle around the fire. Outside of the cave a deeper darkness had fallen, and nothing could be seen beyond the firelight. A few men carried with them flickering lanterns, and Braxton retrieved one of the fresh-water barrels from the ship to quench the mens’ thirsts.

  Levanine looked around at all of the sailors. It seemed they were all there. All of a sudden the amber-eyed man, Awla, came carrying a sheet full of something, another sailor helping him carry it. They dropped it on the ground with a clatter, and wooden bowls and mugs rolled across the cave floor. In the large sheet was a bundle of cloth, presumably for sleeping on.

  Levanine quietly gathered the bowls and began to fill them, handing them out slowly. She passed bowls first to Braxton, and Rakifi, and Eldred, of whom she felt comfortable being near to. As she handed the other hungry men their supper, she realized Silva was missing still.

  As she turned back towards the pot, something suddenly clapped against her behind. Levanine shouted in surprise and wheeled around, her jaw dropping in indignation.

  A gnarled-faced sailor was grinning at her, and red swarmed on the edges of her vision. “You like that?” He teased.

  Levanine did not think, instead she thrust her arms forward, splashing the man’s face with the boiling stew. The sailors gasped and flinched as he leapt to his feet, screaming as the boiling water scarred his flesh and burned his eyes. Her heart roared in her ears and her stomach twisted as the man clawed at his face.

  Levanine blinked hard and realized the only stew that had left the bowl was the greasy drop that had rolled down her cold knuckles. The men chuckled at her. She swallowed thickly as the Captain straightened where he sat.

  “Hands to yourself, Zhan.” He growled.

  “Sorry,” he turned around and gave the Captain a charming smile. “I won’t touch the wench.”

  “You will not touch Levanine because there are rules of this ship and her sailors.” Quinn croaked. He was sitting weakly against the cave wall, Eldred by his side. “Touch her again, I’ll make sure the others can see your spine.”

  Levanine handed the man his soup and his rooten breath rose gooseflesh across her skin as he tried to peer down her shirt, even at an arm’s length away. “I bet I could make you touch me instead,” he whispered.

  Levanine handed him the bowl roughly, splashing some of the greasy broth across his calloused hands, and turned away quickly. Levanine was sure to have the pot between her and ‘Zhan’ the next time she filled a bowl.

  Her skin felt greasy and she felt shaky and her stomach was twisted. She prepared two more servings of soup, using one hand to fill them, biting the knuckles of her other hand until she tasted metal in a desperate attempt not to dissolve. She felt sick and could not stop shuddering.

  Levanine took the long way around the men, carrying the bowls careful and biting her lip in pain as hot broth splashed onto her shaking hands. She handed the soup to the Captain and Quinn. Quinn thanked her quietly, and Eldred moved to help him sip at it. The Captain took his bowl, but glared past her shoulder.

  “Is there something wrong with your food, sire?” Levnaine asked quietly.

  “If any of those men ever touch you again,” he
murmured, placing the bowl against his lips, “scald their eyes out.” He took a long drink of the yellow broth, tipping his head back and closing eyes. He set down the empty bowl and wiped his lips with his sleeve. He finally turned his gaze to look into her eyes. “That’s an order, Levanine.”

  “A-aye, Captain.” She saluted. She waited for more orders.

  “The soup isn’t as bad as I thought it would be.” Levanine gave a half curtsy, unsure of how else to respond, and retreated quickly back to the fireside. None of the men sat as close to the fire as she did, and for that she was thankful.

  Levanine did not serve herself a bowl of soup, but instead watched the mouth of the cave, worried for the nervous boy who had yet to return. She served two bowls of stew in preparation for Silva and herself.

  Three figures entered into the cave and began to walk toward her. “Nice to see you’ve come back alive.” The Captain muttered. “What took so long, Norrin?”

  The three men were Quiller, who was the one-eyed traitor, Silva, and the man named ‘Norrin’. The first two looked disgruntled, and she handed them the bowls she had prepared for herself and Silva.

  The boy limped far behind the other two and she served his supper, holding it patiently as he stumbled toward her. The firelight fell across his face and she gasped softly. His face was bloodied and bruised. He looked miserable and scared.

  “What happened to him?” The Captain asked.

  “‘E fell down the cliff, the useless lug.” Norrin grumbled.

  To Levanine, it did not look like that was the case, but she did not protest. The Captain nodded, his eyes half closed. “Aye. Silva, get cleaned up. You can’t be driving the ship with that eye. Levanine, help him. Norrin, what did you see?”

  Levanine set down Silva’s bowl, half listening to Norrin’s report of what was on the island. She drew a rag from the fresh pot of salt water she had gathered and sat the boy down, then began to wipe his face gently. He winced.