The Raging Storm

Chapter Two: The Raging Storm

Four months later.

Lightning cracked. Thrashing waves rocked the galleon with relentless ferocity. Heavy rain pounded against the upper deck, echoing throughout to the passengers deep below.

Ansel Narth turned his head to the right and etched another marking onto the familiar wooden plank. He used a long nail found sticking out of one of the planks to keep track of the days as a prisoner. According to the markings, it was sometime around Venia - the sixth month of the year.

Months in a brig that reeked of feces and rotting wood started to take its toll on him. The warm musty air clung to his tattered clothing which left him in a state of annoying discomfort. The prisoners in the other cells moaned and conversed. Some sick, others bided their time just as he did. A weed of hopelessness started to take root in his mind. How long until they reached the New Lands? In his twenty-one years of life, he'd never been in a more dire situation.

For the fifth time in the past hour, he peered through the bars to see if any Crimson Guards stood nearby. With none in sight, he slid the nail into the key slot and jostled it around just like Kazmere taught him. Too small. The nail wouldn't get the job done but he couldn't help but try. Doing something about a problem was always better than sitting around sulking.

"Will you shut up all the noise, let a man die in peace," wheezed the person through the wall to his left.

"Sorry old man, go back to sleep. I'll stop."

A phlegm-filled cough rattled through the wooden barrier between them. "It's a waste of time anyways. Did you... eat all the grub they gave you?" Tiredness was evident in the old man's voice.

Ansel sighed while walking over to the corner where he slept. Bending over, he grabbed the heel of the bread he saved from that morning. He reached around the corner to his left with the bread held outward and shook it. The old man snatched it out of his hands in the blink of an eye. Ansel sat back against the wall. He listened to the old man scarf down the bread, his lips smacking.

After a brief time, the eating sounds stopped. "You Foundlings aren't as bad as everyone says you are." The man paused. "If you keep giving up your food like this, you'll end up just like me."

Before Ansel could reply, a Crimson Guard and two scraggly men burst into his cell. The three men swayed and banged against the walls while they searched for their footing. The guard led them to the other side of the cell and pointed at the ground. They both sat with their chained hands up in the air toward the guard until he unchained them. The guard turned to Ansel with a hateful look in his eye but left without saying another word. He slid the nail up into his sleeve, not wanting the other men to notice. The only weapon he had. Laying his head back against the wall, he watched the two men through slitted eyes as they conversed in hushed tones while occasionally looking over at him.

What are they planning?

One of the prisoners was in his early thirties with shoulder-length black hair and a black beard, dressed in similar rags but with short sleeves instead of long ones. He had clearly seen many fights. His arms were scarred all over from blade wounds. The other prisoner appeared around the same age with short fair hair and a long scar from his right temple to his mouth. The man was shirtless and his trousers were ripped in different sections, making them look like a loincloth. His nose came to a sharp point and when he talked, large gaps between his teeth presented themselves. Both of their skin was tan, marking them from Reven.

The dark-haired prisoner spat in his direction. "What're you looking at, Foundling bitch? Keep staring over here and I'll send you to meet the Divines."