Season of Sacrifice (Blood of Azure Book 1) Jonathan Michael (red novels .txt) 📖

time to take leave as so many others have already begun disappearing. Stone, Jay, and I gather our belongings as Shae and Arden assist the servants with cleanup. They truly hold themselves no higher than any person around them. Stone and Jay are blessed to have such a caring family. If only more in this world shared similar characteristics.

Suddenly, a woman’s shriek echoes through the hall. It came from outside. Several lagging guests rush to the exit, Arden and Shae among them. We follow.

Off in the distance, several hundred paces or so, there are two bodies hanging from a large redwood. They wouldn’t be noticeable in the waking light, except there is an orange glow about them. Embers lighting the base of the tree. The two bodies are strung up and scorched.

It’s the two Martelli boys, no doubt. The Grim have been executed for no more than being born Grim—assuming the accusations have weight. I’m only a child, and I can see how ugly this is.  Humanity can be revolting.

The one they call the Taoiseach embraces the testimonials of the Hybreed. Opposition is what I presumed, but maybe I’m too cynical. But betrayal is part of us all during this time of crimson shadows. I will not let my guard down.

21 Stone

“T

o see an unfiltered sunrise. It’s brilliant,” I murmur to myself and soak it in. The massive delta with its red flowing waters and the contrasting blue sky, all with an amber tint as the sun takes shape over the horizon. A gentle breeze brushes across my cheeks for a refreshing change. A needed change. If this serenity is everlasting aboard a fishing vessel, I would gladly take on the role of an angler.

Advocate Gunther was able to get me aboard the Phish Skooler with ease. Captain Fika Crowbill, a longtime follower of the Advocate, seemed eager for the extra deckhand. Not the guest or the package, but the deckhand. No man is allowed onboard the Phish Skooler without paying his dues. It wasn’t beyond reason, and I’m in no place to bargain, so I accepted the terms without question.  And I accepted them as Elder Alderock, still hanging on to the secrecy of my true identity.

The vessel is nothing special. A typical fishing boat the size of a schooner and aged beyond the finest cheeses. The captain and first mate have a cabin above deck and the rest of the crew have small quarters below deck where the kitchen, mess hall, ice storage, and infirmary all reside as well.

“I know you’re a greenhorn, Elder, but you’ve got to learn fast. We can’t have you stopping to smell the minnows every chance you get. And since you’re no good for anything else, get to scrubbing. Here.” The captain shoves a horsehair mop and a bucket of murky water into my hands.

I don’t see how scrubbing the deck with dirty water is going to help anything, but I hold my tongue and get to it.

“And when you’re done here, be sure to stop by my cabin.”

I’ve been aboard the ship for almost two days, and I already have a new understanding of a hard day’s labor. I figured fending for myself in the Broken Forest would have given me a good appreciation, but Captain Crowbill is doling out a whole new level of hurt. The captain tends to downsize me with his words, telling me I’m only good for scrubbing, but my duties have proven otherwise.

We’re up before sunrise and I receive an inkling of a meal before I get to it. My first duty of the day is to clean up after morning meal, scrubbing plates, washing tables, and preparing the mess hall for the next meal. Then, I report to the captain for whatever needs he may have, including tidying up his quarters, scrubbing out his pot, and acting as a messenger—that part is the worst, for I get degraded no matter the receiver. Not one of them appreciates a greenhorn—if I can even claim that title. And I’ve had no proper introduction, so they know not why I’m here. I’m an outsider is all they know.

Then, second meal comes, and I clean up after all the fishermen again with a short meal for myself to follow. After that, I’m to scrub the poop deck with the undersized mop they’ve provided me. And when the fishermen are done fishing for the day and hunker below deck to the mess hall for their final meal, I scrub parts of the boat I don’t know what they’re called. Terms like spar, halyard, and bow are tossed around as if they’re common tongue. But I’m finding as long as I continue scrubbing, they don’t really care what it is I’m scrubbing, so I haven’t learned their jargon yet. Once they’re finished with their final meal, then I’m back to scrubbing their dishes and making sure everything is ready for the next day. But that was the first few days. We’ll see what excitement comes my way today.

Come to think of it, nearly all I’m doing is scrubbing, whether it’s the deck, some other part of the boat, or the dishes. Damn.

“Yes, captain, sir. Scrubbing’s my specialty.” I offer a forced smile.

He rolls his eyes at me. “By the way, expect a flogging later. Accept it, and we’ll be done with it.” And he walks off.

A flogging. Why would he say that?

Fika Crowbill is an elderly and surly man, parallel to all other fishermen I spied in Greenport and all the fishermen aboard this vessel. He maintains the reputation well from what I’ve picked up in the brief time aboard his ship, and he looks the part too. What hair he lacks on his head is accounted for on his face with a peppered-grey, unkempt beard that a flock of albatross might call home. And that gnarly scar