Master of Souls

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Esumaro turned, frowning slightly. His weather-beaten face was raised towards the dark, lowering clouds. He let out a soft hiss from between crooked, blackened teeth and shifted his balance on the swaying deck before glancing swiftly about him. The seas around the broad-beamed ship were already reflecting the blackness of the clouds and the surface of the water was broken by short, choppy, white-crested waves. The seas were becoming angry and threateningly alive, although partially shrouded by sheets of gusting rain.

Esumaro moved his thoughtful gaze to the straining sails above him. The wind was increasing rapidly from the north-west causing even the mainmast to groan, protesting against the onslaught.

Beside him, Coros, his mournful-featured first mate, stood uneasily by the tiller, keeping an anxious eye on the captain.

‘That’s Inis Mhic Aoibhleain ahead,’ he ventured, shouting to make himself heard above the moaning winds and breaking sea. He had stretched out a hand towards the dark outline of an island, almost obscured by the rain but slightly to portside of the vessel’s bows. ‘The wind is turning us to the east, captain. We won’t be able to weather the island in these seas and if we keep it on our larboard we shall be driven on the rocks.’

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