Chapter 1 - Scene 4

Chapter 1-4

The horizon remained steady in his view, occasionally disappearing behind the rising bow of the ship.   Looking down, examining the sigils that covered his arm, he tried again to remember but again nothing came.  He knew they were magical; when he concentrated he could find the point where his own impressive physical prowess ended and the words of enhancement took over.  Words of strength and accuracy wrapped around his arms, while thickly imprinted sigils of stamina and resolve shielded his belly.  Speed and quickness pulsed through the glowing signs down his legs, but none of these told him who he was or why he had received such gifts.  It was the words of obedience and service to the At’Eri that sang like lash-stings crisscrossing his back that gave him his only insight, limited by the fact he did not know who his would-be masters were.  

For a name, he had given the ships’ Captain the insignia on his left wrist and he read it again now to strengthen the association in his own mind.  Endrix – Master Sparring
“Endrix Sparr” The words resonated in his bass filled voice, barely audible over the din of the ships activity.  He had been surprised when the Captain had taken him onboard with just that limited information and no money, but after noting how he stood head and shoulders above his shipmates the surprise subsided.

In the past weeks, Endrix had found disgust to be in his nature.  The others were so less capable than him that it was no wonder so many were needed to man the vessel.  It was not he alone who realized this fact.  The Captain, a man of even slighter build than the crew with a lengthening of the ear denoting a distant elven heritage, had tried to force labor beyond their original agreement once early on.  A few seconds in Sparrs’ iron grip had put an end to that idea, but because he could not stand to watch such pitiful efforts, Endrix had volunteered to help get more out of the deckhands on the trip.  

“You there,” Sparr boomed, pointing a black-nailed finger at the closest deckhand; a ruddy boy still unused to the lurching vessel “climb that mast and tell the crow I have been looking at land for minutes now and not heard his call.  Perhaps going dry for the remainder of the voyage will give his eyes a shine.”

The boy balked as he looked up to the nest swaying in the air above, but as the taskmaster took a step his way he decided a little fall wouldn’t be as bad as the alternative.  Scrawny limbs twining around the handholds, the boy scrambled to obey.  As the giant passed below him on its way to confront another crewman, it suddenly dawned on the boy that falling before he reached the top may get him whipped for good measure.  

Endrix on the other hand had already forgotten about the boy, as his sights were set on a cankerous slob of a man leaning against the stairway to the upper deck, poking at a swab with his dagger mockingly.  Blether was his name, and this was not the first time Sparr had noticed his penchant for tormenting the greener mates in lieu of working.

With a loud thud, the taskmaster buried his fist in Blether’s protruding belly, causing both bottle and dagger to drop to the deck as the wind rushed from this waste of skin.  Before letting him recover, Sparr grabbed the bowed neck and forced Blether to ships edge and held him out at arm’s length.  Just then the call of land spotting rang out.

“This has to come as no surprise worm.  Be thankful I waited until you had a fighting chance.  If the swim goes well and reminds you of all the hard work you shirked on the voyage, I may give you a fraction of your share, but you will not set foot on this ship again.” With a sneer of contempt, and no further ceremony, his big hand released its burden.

No sooner had Blether’s calls faded into the background; Endrix was calling for the quartermaster to arm the men.  Upon hearing this order, the first mate came forward to be seen and belayed it.  Shaking his head, the executive officer walked calmly to the midship.  

“The decision to arm is the captains to make – and in his absence; mine.  We are making port in Nassav to resupply and gather news of the markets along the Shredded Coast.  Neither task necessitates violence, and entering the city battle ready will be seen as an insult to the White Witches.  Do not issue that command again.”  As upset as he was over being countermanded, Sparr had to admit that this red haired young man had more natural leadership than his superior by far.  Nodding his consent and offering a cursory “Sir” to maintain the status quo, he then moved to retire to the lower decks.

Once alone with his thoughts, two things weighed on him and gave him pause to reflect on those two events.  Sparr had never given thought to the notion of arming until the order was leaving his mouth, it seemed as if he was operating on a script – something felt like he had gone through these motions a thousand times.  These little slips of rote memory were becoming more common but didn’t bother him too much.  After all, they may help him to remember where he had developed the habits.  The stranger notion was how easily he had sublimated his anger so he could go along with the first mate’s dressing down.  Yes, it made sense and was both the correct decision and his to make, but Sparr could feel the sigils on his back pull and itch now.

Putting those thoughts out of his head now, and opening his foot locker, Endrix retrieved a suit of black plate.  A sneer crossed his chiseled face as he bound it around him.