Chapter 2

                                    

                                          

Joakim opened his eyes to a nightmare world; fast fins, gaping jaws, and bubbling gore as far as he could see. Yanked deeper, past the swarming sharks, he was pulled into the depths. 
Desperate, he grasped for the bone-handled knife at his waist. The weight of the coin purse on his wrist made the movement sluggish and awkward. He wished he'd had time to tie it round his chest. 
A flicker of light from above gave Joakim a glimpse of the beast that held him. Twice the size of a grown man's head, the murk curled like a ball around Joakim's leg. Its shell, as thick as a finger, covered the softer parts beneath. The murk's hidden jaws cut agony into his calf. 
He wanted to scream. Breath burning in his throat, he fought against the clinging creature. 
He forced his hand down his bleeding leg to jam his knife into the murk's uncovered flesh. The knife went in, and it suddenly let go, darting away in a spurt of black blood. It disappeared into the gloom as quickly as it had come. 
Legs weak, Joakim kicked up. He struggled towards the swarming sharks, towards the light. Spots swam before his eyes. Darkness and shadow blurred together into an all-too-familiar face...
He broke the surface, gasping and spitting with relief. 
His heart pounded when something brushed against his injured leg–not a bite, not yet.
He kicked out against the touch, and lost some height above the water. He reached out and steadied himself against the pilings of the pier. His other hand grasped for the talisman on his chest. The shark tooth burned hot against his hand, and another's vision replaced his own. For an instant, he was the shark, wild and hungry, driven mad by the smell of blood flowing from a gash on his side. He wanted to eat, to bite his own flesh, but cold instinct told him to flee. There were others, drawn by the scent, who valued his life far less.
Joakim opened his eyes to find he didn't have enough teeth to defend himself. The charm might make the sharks take him as one of their own, but their ruthlessness would overcome the magic–blood would drive them to violence. He had to get out of the water. Now.
He surfaced at the end of the pier, in full view of a lone, sun-baked fishwife. The woman sat gutting a fish on an upturned bucket. Her leathery hands moved with practised ease, knife skillfully flicking the guts into the bloody waters.
"Here, man! What ya doing down there? It's not safe!" She moved as if to get up. Her legs stood beside her on the dock, two cylinders of wood with leather straps, standing like bowling pins waiting for a ball.
"I fell in." Joakim hauled himself onto the damp dock. He spat to get the foul taste of the water out of his mouth. "Got caught on something and pulled down."
"Ya must have Maelsteus's blessing to have got away from that." She stared at Joakim's sodden pants, half-open shirt, and the blood leaking from his leg. "You a sailor? I thought I knew all the fishermen hereabouts."
"I'm with The Magnificent Jolly further up the harbour." It was a stupid name for a boat, but right now he couldn't think up a better one. "I'd best get back there. My master will want to know I'm okay."
"He might do that, or he might not recognise ya'. If I'm not mistaken, that's tarken dye on ya' skin, and it's coming off right fast."
 Joakim looked down and bit his lip to keep from cursing. He should have considered this–the dye held against any water washing, but add a little urine to the mix, and it would wash off rapidly. The polluted harbour water, and the cursed slaver galley, must have been enough to counteract the dye. His copper disguise dripped down his chest, colouring his damp shirt and leaving patches of pale skin behind.