Ishgar yawned loudly. He had walked along the parapet of the ship four times in a row, slapped his own rugged tanned face, rubbed kawad-oil into his dark deep-set eyes to stimulate his senses… He tried not to focus on the deck swaying and creaking under him, on the waves lapping slothfully against the hull, or the snoring of his shipmates in the quarters below him. But no matter what he did, little by little, the weariness of the day was catching up with him. ‘And a long day it’s been’, he thought.

Usually, at that time of the year, there was still enough of a breeze to keep one awake, if not shivering. Only four days ago, the wind had been blowing generously in the white sails of their two-masted vessel, leading them swiftly out of the port of Joddaï and into the wide sea. Ishgar had thought it would carry them all the way to the north and to their destination. Then, as the sun would have risen more to the north every morning, carrying the Sea-Wind in its wake, they would have taken a well-deserved rest for the winter season, and enjoyed the hospitality of the great City of Barcadéna: spiced wines, cadonia liquors, wenches from the Southern Isles, brawls with other sailors from across the Coast… All the simple delights that his hard-earned money could buy!- but then, as the sun rose in the east this morning, the wind had faltered to a timid breeze. A bad omen, some of the sailors had said. ‘A bloody stroke of bad luck!’ Ishgar had sneered. Then the captain had them all working twice as hard as before: scrubbing the floor, rolling the sails up, getting the oars out… and then hours upon hours of rowing, rowing, faster and faster, as if they had a sea-dragon on their tail. It took until the second hour after noon for the captain to finally accept to put them to work.

They, as the captain said, needed to stay fresh. No use tiring them out before they reached their destination. They were only used to keep a quick enough pace, and they were not lashed. ‘Well, not too hard, at least’ Ishgar smirked. Over the years, he had grown to enjoy the feeling of superiority he got over the rabble that now slept under his feet. He had even started to call them ‘the cattle’, or ‘the goods’, like the captains did. It made him feel important, above his older shipmates who only called them ‘they’, as if they were ashamed of what they were doing, what they had done, season after season, year after year. Ishgar spat; they knew what they were getting into when setting foot on board. He knew, as did everyone in Joddaï, everyone in the world. The whole Continent knew where the City-of-Gems got its wealth: and every lord, mage, queen and princeling would cast their gold into the sea just to sell half as much cattle as Joddaï. It was simple: for each soft-hearted dotard who feared to work in the trade, there were a hundred men eager to take their place – men like himself, who knew what needed to be done, who did not shy away from getting their hands dirty. Besides, they had good food, always travelled along the same paths, only worked for half a year, and were honoured as servants of the city when they returned home.

‘And the pay’s not too bad either!’ he said to himself in a low chuckle, his hand fondling the bronze, gold and silver coins in his pouch. Of course, he would not be paid until they finally touched land; and what he had earned along the way amounted to at least four times his due. All of it he had won fairly, this very night, from the rest of the night crew. Slow days had their benefits: the men were in dire need of some distraction from their menial chores. And Ishgar and his partner provided both the drinks and the entertainment, in the form of dice games.

And no one had noticed a thing. By tomorrow, they could move on to higher gains: they could innocently challenge the quartermaster, even the Captain himself! He reached for the brown sack he wore in his ample belly, and felt the weight of a pair of loaded dice, gloating internally over his subtle handiwork; he laughed, this time out loud.

Maybe it was the sudden sound of his own voice. Maybe it was the muffled knock he thought he had heard on the ship’s hull below. Either way he snapped out of his daydreaming. He looked around: everything seemed peaceful, aside for the abandoned snoring of the drunken night crew and the empty sails swaying limply in the dying breeze.

Suddenly he heard – or thought he heard a soft, sharp twang, followed by another in a lower tone, then by another, so faint that the ambient noises swallowed them up as quickly as they came. What it was, or if it even was real, he could not yet tell. He listened more closely, wondering if he had not simply fallen asleep, when he suddenly noticed the sweet strumming of low strings. His memory sparked up: it was a kamthir, like the ones the old storytellers used to play in the streets of the port when he was a child. But here? In the middle of the sea? He crouched low and put his ear to the deck, trying to figure out how the merchandise below his feet could have managed to get their hands on such an instrument. But another lively strumming made him raise his head: it was not coming from below deck, but from the other side of the boat.

Ishgar stepped carefully between the sleeping men and around the central mast and crossed the deck to the starboard side. The music was lighter now, its high-pitched pinging inviting him forward. When he laid his hands on the side of the deck, he looked around, seeing nothing in the darkness, until another sharp twang beckoned him to look below.

There was a small fishing boat there, right alongside the ship’s hull. When had it appeared? Who would be so mad as to sail the open seas on a rowboat in the middle of the night? And from which port? Even the nearest ones were at least a week’s sailing away. All these questions flashed briefly in Ishgar’s hazy mind, but the music had resumed, holding him mysteriously. As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness below, he made out a shrouded silhouette, and could barely see the instrument it played. He stood motionless under the music’s spell, and his imagination ran wild, back to the land of long-forgotten tales of his childhood: this was not a man, but one of these spirits that took on the shape of those they killed. Or it was a ghost from some haunted realm long sunk under the sea, plotting the end of the ship and all its crew. Or the Messenger of Death of Il-Ehhaï, sent forth from the Light-Beyond-All-Lights that Ishgar had forsaken long ago. Now the hidden figure had quickened the pace: the notes were growing lower too, their pinging resounding starkly against the hull. Almost unconsciously, Ishgar leaned over the deck, and saw the man’s long fingers swiftly jumping across the strings like mad spiders. If he could just get a closer look, maybe he could see its face…

In half an instant, its shroud was swept away, revealing a long arm that reached out for something Ishgar could not see. In a blur of motion, it raised another arm upward. Metal briefly shone against the starlight. Then there was a sharp twang, a swift hiss, and Ishgar’s head jerked back. The black arrow had pierced right into his throat and through his neck. He stumbled back, tried to scream out in anguish and pain, but could only let out a low, gargled grunt. Through his strained and bloodshot eyes, he could see the stars twinkling erratically above him. And as his body slumped to the ground, his last thought drifted away, not to Barcadéna or to his home back in Joddaï, but to the realm of ancient tales, where justice and death rode together to avenge the innocent and punish the wicked.

New chapter coming every monday!

Image credits: Lukas Robertson (Unsplash)