Written for the Tamora Pierce Writing Experiment July Challenge.
The life of a fishermen on the Syth isn't one many envy.
The water always freezing, a mere three minutes submerged would have you dead of cold. The storms that sprang up unexpectedly could crush you against the glacial shore in seconds and the pay was barely worth the continuous prospect of death.
But to Brithyll*, the risk of death was a necessary evil and the rope burns of water logged hemp were burden to be born if he wanted to get enough money to start his glassmaking apprenticeship. His family was poor, but he knew that if he could become a journeymen glassblower, he could earn his way out of poverty and maybe start his own shop…
"Oi Bri!" The loud shout of the bosun over the heaving of the ship grated on his ears. "Get yer 'ead out of the clouds and haul that net you maggot!"
Bri scowled at the swarthy bosun (Good god, did that man ever stop shouting?) and hauled on the long rope that attached to the fishing boom, adding his grunts to the other fishermen around him. Slowly, the net rose like a leviathan out of the water, liquid streaming off of the sides of the bulging trap.
All of the men let out a cheer, grins and slaps on the back distributed evenly. This was the last haul of the day, and, by the look of all the wriggling sea bass, this was the biggest yet.
Brithyll grinned, ruffling his hands through his curly blonde hair, stiff from the salt. With the money from this, he'd have enough for the glassblower's first apprenticeship consideration-
"Storm ho!"
Bri froze as he stared upwards at the crow's nest in disbelief. No! The weather mage had said-
"You heard him!" the bosun screamed, veins bulging in his neck from panic. "Get that fish aboard! Move, move, move!"
Bri scrambled to lash himself to the mast, his hands shaking as he did so. He was only seventeen, and he'd seen the shredded wreckage of ships that had been caught in Syth storms, and the icy blue corpses that had washed on the gravel beaches.
He had no desire to be one of them.
The dark waves of the Syth grew choppy, tossing the small ship to and fro as they attempted to meet up with their fleet. Behind, Bri could see the ominous typhoon approach and his heart leapt to his throat as the sleet poured down on his thin cotton shirt.
The ship creaked and moaned as the sea ravaged her, sharp waves of deadly water leaping over the rails to slap unsuspecting seamen in the face or to grab them and drag them to their watery deaths. Even now, Bri could see the laughing face of the patron trickster god as it opened wide to swallow them up-
Then, the storm halted, stopped in its tracks. It lurched forward, only to be halted again.
What, what manner of sorcery was this? Bri thought in awe as the wall of dark ship killer storm receding slightly. Then with a gust of wind that filled the still partially open sails and sped them away, the storm was sucked away, trailing in a dark ribbon towards the partially visible walls of the winter palace.
Bri gulped, sagging against his bonds as he attempted to get his legs to respond again. To have witnessed death, and to have smelled the very storm that would have dashed you to pieces… and then have been snatched back from the jaws of death?
"Thank you, mage." Bri whispered his face pale and sweaty as he mopped it with a sopping wet sleeve, hoping somehow, his heartfelt prayer would reach the right gods, and the right mage.
Far away, still being helped down the stairs by her wonderful foster-brother Briar, said mage heard to small gesture of gratitude and, even as she saw the nobles of the court shift in fear and awe…
She smiled.
Brithyll- means trout in Welsh. I thought it was appropriate :)