When he awoke, he could feel the floorboards underneath him swaying. The sounds of waves crashing in on each other was met by the sounds of birds screeching overhead. He could not see a thing, however, as a bag covered his head and his hands were bound at the wrist behind him. His stomach began to lurch at the feeling of the ship gliding up and down upon a wave.

“Our friend is awake,” came the voice. It was the same one that had greeted him in the alley way, Aymon knew. A hand grabbed the bag over his head and yanked it off aggressively. Lord Aymon was met with eight sullen faces staring back at him. A man off at the prow did not even glance back, instead he stood at the edge of the prow, overlooking the open sea in front of him.

Aymon’s eyes darted around the stolen galley. He knew it was stolen, for these men were smugglers and the galley were a beautiful thing, although old. The galley had two tall masts and six oars on either side, although the crew only manned three to a side. A rearing black horse with red eyes hung from the prow—a giveaway that this galley was not trading under the jurisdiction of the nine kingdoms. Ships of the nine kingdoms never fashioned a beast at the prow, and men from the badlands only ever displayed them when they meant to raid.

Bags of coins littered the floor of the galley by their feet. Jewels and cups and rings were stacked on top of the piles of coins, leaving little room to maneuver your feet. The boards were painted white but most of the paint had chipped away, leaving the galley’s floorboards and railings with an old, worn-down appearance.

Their galley was moving quickly, not far from the coast which lingered some way to their right amidst dense fog that hovered over the water. A man with dirt for a beard lifted his pointy chin over the side of the galley, peering into the waters below.

“Levels are low. The black scum that drifts is drying these waters. Won’t be long before the ports are closed down.” The man spit a spitball into the water, one knee still propped upon a bench for rowing. The others continued their rhythmic rowing whilst he rested. “Fishermen going to become a premium round these parts. Their cast gon’ get contaminated with all that scum.” The smuggler tossed Gajra Thatch into his mouth, spitting yellow juices from his mouth once it became foamy.

“Aye, Mott Soulton’s the name. Nicest lad you’ll chance to come across on this galley. You’d do well to stick with me, you’ll want me on your side when we decided who gets your head and who gets your body. Either will sell for a fortune.” The man named Mott Soulton spit more Gajra Thatch, avoiding Lord Aymon’s stare. He turned slowly, breaking into a cackle when he saw the look upon the captive’s face.

“Does this one talk? Did they cut your tongue out already? I thought that was later, so it stays fresh a while…” He laughed at his own joke again, coughing vehemently on the thatch. His face turned purple, heaving a small animal from his throat. The other smugglers shot disinterested looks, none allowing so much as the slightest of grins.

“Cast the nets, Mott. I mean to eat before the night arrives. Won’t be catching nothing when that light dies out,” A gruff man beside him heaved on the oars. His arms were quickly noticeably larger than the rest of his smuggler companions. Lord Aymon noted it to himself to stay clear of an altercation with the man.

“Well the fish don’t simply disappear when the night comes, it is only that it becomes harder on myself because I can’t see a darn thing when its dark.” Said Mott in a patronizing tone.

“I’d handle your own tongue myself if you don’t get yer smart comments to yourself. I know how to catch a fish and I’ll cast you as bait if I have to.” The gruff man’s face was stern.

“Easy, Heliot. That tongue has gotten us out of countless checkpoints. I mean for it to stay where it is.” The leader of the group spoke now, and Lord Aymon thought back to his first encounter…how long ago had it been? He was faintly piecing together the memory of that night before a blow had put him out.

“Sarin…” he whispered to himself.

“What’s that, your grace? Pretend I’m one of your little squire boys.” The man called Mott brought his man parts before Lord Aymon, taunting him. “I’ll tell you what—we’ve had countless captives from your lands—none have been as quiet and seemly as your like. You like a lord of some sort. A man who’s used to wealth. You’ve got that look about ya, haven’t ya? That arrogant little pinched face.” Mott’s tone had grown angry and bitter by the end. He was seething behind clenched teeth before the smuggler’s leader nudged him and gestured for him to step away. He returned to the oar and began rowing again.

“I know you have questions, lord. Before you ask any, just remember, you are no lord…here.” He annunciated the last word carefully, as if Lord Aymon had not understand the full weight of what it meant to be here. The leader had crouched to eye level and stared intently at Lord Aymon, who refused to look him in the face. The leader rose from his crouch.

Lord Aymon studied him now, half turned as he scanned the coastline to the south. His hair was long and bundled up into a messy nest of black hair like some sort of woolly beast of its own. His eyes had a sad look about them, but Lord Aymon could not put his finger on why. His fingers and arms were crowded with rings of gold and silver. Dark lines were tattooed fearsomely underneath his eyes, causing his eyes to give the illusion that they were draping down—like runny ink down a parchment.

The galley continued in for a many mile before Mott Soulton returned once again to his place along the side of the galley. He cast down a large net as the galley came to a halt. The fog had lifted from the water’s surface and now the sun had come out only to sit softly in the sky. A beam of orange light struck the water’s surface, growing wider the closer it got the boat until its orange radiance covered the whole of the water.

Dinner was raw fish and stolen but stale bread. Ale was only for the smugglers, but Aymon received whatever had clung to the discarded bones of the fish Mott had captured. Men wolfed their food down savagely. Most used small sax knives to cut their meat from the bones. Elsewise, men jammed their mouths into the fish, licking after every last strand of fat. Lord Aymon was none to hungry as it was. Other things had taken residence in his thoughts.

As men finished their scraps, they tossed them carelessly at Alaric Aymon’s feet. He struggled to pick them up, reaching down with tied hands and bound legs. He considered asking for them to be removed but he wanted to learn first. He wanted to figure out who he was dealing with before he let them in on his own thoughts. He would protect himself. He knew the way of smugglers. They loved blood and conflict. They thrived on it, and he would not give them reason to shed his blood.

A man with shrunken features upon a skinny head spokes, “The black waters have given way to a new piety amongst smugglers.” He glanced around the group with eyelids that hung halfway over his eyes.

“The Slabrakhi have taken to the waters then? Don’t they think that there are demons in the waters? And that is why they curse our name upon their tongues…” replied the only fishermen amongst them, Mott Soulton.

“Not the Slabrakhi. These ones call themselves the Creed of the Blackwaters. I heard word when we were in the citadel that one Inn’s keep was saying they been tryin’ to convert other smugglers and pirates. Said they scalp you when you’ve converted to their creed.” The skinny man ran bony fingers through flat hair.

“Shall we scalp your head for you then, Tillet?” Mott replied. He stuffed more Gajra Thatch into the side of his cheek. “I reckon you’d like that, Tillet. You always been able to stomach horror. I reckon it’s been too long since you skinned someone last. Wasn’t it that captive the other month who called you Tilly instead of Tillet?”

“Tillet the Terror, they call me.” Tillet said in an annoyed voice. He was much subdued in contrast to Mott who always seemed to have his mouth running. “Might have to be its you next if you keep running that mouth. I swear it don’t stop sometimes.”

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“Well if the Creed of the Blackwaters think they can drag me into whatever dark dealings they got goin’ on they can try, I only got an eye for coin regardless of the black that fills our waters.”

“What’s your coin gonna do for ya when yer dead?” The gruff man Heliot spoke now, his usual permanent scowl has lightened slightly. “May as well believe something. Small chance you’ll believe the truth but better than nothin’.”

“Well I’m sure they trained you well in piety then, Ser Heliot Sangrey of Lightenbrag. Not all of us said our little prayers to the priest and did our daily hymns as you did. You still holding on to the Common God?” Mott replied. His tone had not left its high pitch state which had left Heliot Sangrey with shoulders tensed and his face in his hands.

“Yes, Mott. Even still. There is no commandment that you cannot make coin as a free man and not go to the paradise falls at your life’s end,” Heliot grumbled.

“Fair enough. I do wonder what goes on inside the heads of the Blackwater Creed. These waters only just began oozing tar—”

“—not tar.” A man at the other end of the galley who had happened to be listening interjected.

“Okay, black water—whatever. If the religion is younger than these blackened waters, what existed before it? Do they assume man was to have known of the Blackwater Creed before the waters flowed black?”

“The black waters are not of our concern. That is for the Goblins to deal with, Mott. We deliver our captive. We get our prize. There is nothing more.” The galley’s leader gazed upon his men with his sad eyes. Lord Aymon tried to remain inconspicuous. He knew there were no right answers when the questions started being asked.

“Are you not interested, at least? I find it fascinating. What has the whisperer of secrets heard of late?” Mott gestured towards a larger man who sat with his belly hanging out of his tunic and over his trousers. He appeared disinterested.

“I am not a whisperer of secrets any longer. My ears no longer speak to me.”

“’Tis a shame. Your secrets were the only thing that made you of value. I’d imagine that’s hard to stomach. Everyone else has our part to bring to the table. Hell, I’d imagine our captive here can row an oar better than those fat arms o’ yours.” Mott Soulton teased the man, but these men all seemed cold. Lord Aymon wondered if it was always this cold amongst the men. Perhaps they have all seen too much. My eyes are virgins compared to this lot.

The whisperer of secrets sucked his teeth. “I heard a whisper the other day that Mott Soulton has raped more women than fish caught.” That had aroused a few laughs from the members aboard The Tycoon. “I heard from a fisherman himself, claims he knew Mott from the start. You still enjoying these whispers, Mott? I’ve got plenty more in store.”

Mott Soulton had become serious for the first time that Alaric Aymon had seen. He spit all of his Gajra Thatch into the water. His face had grown dark. His jaw was clenched. The Whisperer held a smug look as he scanned the setting sun off to the north.

The galley continued on through the waters, gliding smooth as a dove. Alaric Aymon heard the leader of the group speaking quietly to The Whisperer beside him.

“How much longer until we reach the Rivertrade?” asked the leader.

“I believe we are passing along the coast of Lightenbrag just judging off the fisherman and trading galleys I see docked at the coastline. That looks like Nincove just there,” he said, pointing. “Given that, I’d say we’re about three days out if we’re rowing hard. The current runs against us so it could be longer. The blackwater that flows from the Draining Sea is disrupting the water’s patterns, so it’s hard to tell.” The Whisperer glanced beside the ship’s railing to see a thick layer of black goo float along the water’s surface like algae. It sat in clumps, leaving certain areas void of the black goo.

“Won’t be long before the fish start dying.” Said their leader.

“We’ll never have to cast a net again in our lifetime,” said Mott Soulton, still sobered from the earlier comment by The Whisperer.

“I don’t fancy casting a net in these waters. Them fish are likely to be as good as death by the time they wash up to the sea’s surface. Suit yourselves, I ain’t touching that.” Heliot Sangrey called out over his shoulder.

“I don’t mean for us to eat. I mean to sell the fish. The common folk of the nine kingdoms don’t know any better. They’d buy horse shit if we priced it right.” The leader had one leg raised up upon the edge of his ship. The sun was shrinking and lowering all the while.

“One day,” started their leader, “I shall have enough wealth to purchase an entire legion of mercenaries. It will be known across the nine kingdoms and into all the badlands—do not charge a single shilling to that man, because that…that is Dericore Badrome, and he does what he wants.” Alaric Aymon studied his face. The look of sadness had left his eyes. All he saw now was greed marked but an unruly ambition. All he knew is that he was their captive, and they meant to sell him as they did all captives they took.

“What will you name it?” asked Alaric. “The mercenaries you mean to purchase?”

Dericore Badrome stared at his captive. His face was still as stone.

Alaric Aymon didn’t back down, his gaze remaining steady upon their leader. That was his first mistake.

A knee drove into his back. He tried to find his feet, but he stumbled amidst the heavy bag of coins underfoot. He slammed onto the deck floor, unable to catch himself since his hands were tied. Another man drove a kick into his side. He groaned, heaving all the air he could from his lungs, but it was too late for breathing. The crew took to kicking him until he was a pile of blood and bruises. His face was untouched except for blood that had pooled at his mouth. Dericore Badrome had simply stood upon a rowing bench watching the ordeal.

“You are not a lord anymore, Alaric Aymon. You are nobody. You are a thing. I will sell my things so long as they are alive. And as far as I know, there are a lot of things you can do to a man without taking life from his soul.” Those words came off coldly, and the abuse had only begun.

“I’m going to skin his head like the Blackwater Creed,” came the suggestion from Tillet the Terror. A wicked grin overtook his face but Heliot Sangrey knocked the short blade from his hand, scolding him.

“We don’t practice piety. I will not have the Blackwater Creed mistaking our captive for one of their own.” Dericore Badrome stood with arms crossed, his forearms were near as large as Heliot’s, to his own credit.

“Fair enough,” said Tillet. “Hey, Joren, how many fingers you got?” Tillet called out to a quiet smuggler that sat by the ship’s prow with his hood covering his face.

“Four on the right, two on the left.” He replied, not even turning to see what Tillet was doing.

“That’s four less than you, captive. Maybe you could be so kind as to give one away? Then maybe we’d forgive you.” Tillet was in Alaric’s face now.

“Forgive me for what? All I did was answer your captain’s question.” Alaric’s reply had not helped him. Tillet gripped his collar, dragging his face within inches of his own.

“I get thirsty, captive. I get really thirsty when I haven’t killed for days. It’s like an itch, and we’ve got three days at least until we arrive at Rivertrade. Do you know what the goblins do with men who have no fingers? Do ya?” His voice was a growl now.

Alaric snarled his face, resisting Tillet’s grip on his collar.

Tillet continued, “They flay you alive and sell your skin to a Phantom Rider.” Tillet’s words had trailed into a whisper. Alaric could smell the fish in his breath. Alaric caught a glimpse of his mouth, full of long, pointy teeth.

Tillet then jerked Alaric’s head into his chest and bit down as hard as he could, ripping hip of his ear right off. Alaric screamed, flailing wildly. His feet kicked at the coins underfoot, spilling a couple of the bags.

“I won’t take no fingers, but you don’t need half an ear!” Tillet the Terror’s face had gone bloodthirsty, murder in his eyes. Heliot Sangrey had had enough and he grabbed the thin little monster by the scruff, tossing him aside. Blood squirted busily from Alaric’s ear to stain Heliot’s wool pants.

“He’s making a mess, just toss him over to clean the blood away,” protested Mott whose mood had clearly soured.

“No. Those waters will ruin him. We need him whole and healthy to get a fair price. Tillet, do not go near him or I’ll have all your fingers and both your ears gone.” Dericore Badrome spoke as if it were routine, but Alaric was still moaning and grasping his half-bitten ear.

Just then a rush of water brushed up against the side of the water. Sweeping waves rolled in from their left where the sun had just set underneath the horizon. Amidst the noise and angst within the galley the men had not spotted the approaching ship.

Mott was back on his haunches, spirits lifted. “It’s a trading galley—twelve oars a side! And she’s got the sigil of the kraken!” he cried.

“Well who’s got the sigil of a kraken?” asked the man named Joren from the prow of the ship. The approaching ship had been enough for Joren to lower his cowl and glance upon its presence. Golden locks sat prettily along his shoulders.

“It’s the fat lord, Ryn Malarin.” Dericore Badrome was staring in awe.

“Free plunder then, lord? And plenty of ale for us all,” chimed Heliot Sangrey.

“No, not just plunder. Slaves. Lots of ‘em.” Replied their captain. “I don’t mean to plunder their ship. I mean to take it.”

The Tycoon slowly eased its prow north and made for the large trading galley. Men on board the large galley began to notice, sounding the alarm to get into positions to defend the siege.

Dericore only laughed. “I don’t think you’ll be needing your fingers after all, Lord Aymon. We’ve just multiplied our fortunes a hundred-fold.” Dericore glanced at Alaric now, “In other words, you aren’t worth a damn thing to us now.”

Tillet grinned, grabbing his knife.