Son of the Dragon by A.Gustafson

Rowers hummed as they dipped their oars into the water. Their sound rose and fell with the waves that crashed against the hull and the steady beat of the drummer. The sails were taut with the wind, a gift from the skies, and a good omen for the battle to come.

The other ships in the war fleet sailed on every side of them, with their black dragon figureheads, and their prows cutting through the grey waters.

Despite the thick layer of clouds blotting out the sun, Jebran raised a hand to his forehead to shade his eyes. The other warriors were tense, conversation had died out hours ago, and those who should be sleeping paced and milled against the railings, staring out at the horizon. There was no sight of land in any direction, but they were getting close.

Jebran ran the whetstone down his curved blade, feeling the rumble of the stone in his fingers. The air was cold and wet from the sea, and it clung to his skin. Lifting the stone he set it against the edge, already sharp, and followed it down again. He kept his gaze on the blade, his mind on the vibrating of the whetstone. He did not want to leave this moment. In this moment, he was alive, he was whole, and he was not a coward. By evening's fall, any one of them might not be.

A gull, in the distance, caught Jebran's eye. Fear roiled in his guts like a snake.

There it was, time, slipping forward, taking with it the last of Jebran as a boy. No matter how much he poured his mind and senses into collecting every piece of a moment, he couldn't hold onto it.

The gull grew closer, soaring on a draft.

Now was not the place to let his mind wander into the future, or the past. What had come and what was written, could not be changed. He must stay in the now, make the choices it demanded and prove himself a warrior. Jebran could not stay a boy forever, and his brother would need men he could trust if he was to bring them the great victory promised to them by the aldars and their reading of the stars.

Jebran climbed down the ladder into the hull, past the rowing men to the lowest level that sat beneath the ocean's surface. The inside of the ship was filled with crates and barrels, a single area cleared near the middle for gatherings. Only the fiercest warriors of the Chieftain's circle could venture here.

It was not a place Jebran could feel at ease. It was not a place he had earned.

Armaghan. His brother and Chief, sat across from Shabaz, the white-haired aldar.

Armaghan was nineteen tosamnes, his face still not yet showing any signs of a beard. They looked alike, Jebran and Armaghan. The same silk black hair, dangling past their shoulders, their faces clinging to boyhood and their eyes the colour of slate. But Armaghan bore the scars of many battles and Jebran's skin; only the scratches of an adventurous boy.

'Brother,' Armaghan said, smiling. 'I have a gift for you.' He rose and dug through a small chest.

Gulab watched from the shadows. He was twice as big as any man had any right to be, with a thick beard that tumbled wiry and wild to his chest, and he dressed in the hide of the brown bear.

Gulab didn't like Jebran, but then, he didn't like any man, except for Armaghan.

Everybody loved Armaghan.

'Here.' Armaghan stepped around the old aldar. He held out his fist and opened it to reveal a smooth piece of petrified driftwood, the size of a thumb, at the end of a leather cord. 'From the beaches of home. It will bring luck to you.'