Water & Storm Country

Published by David Estes at Smashwords

Copyright 2013 David Estes

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Discover other exciting titles by David Estes
available through the author’s official website:

http://davidestesbooks.blogspot.com

or through select online retailers.

Young-Adult Books by David Estes

The Dwellers Saga:

Book One—The Moon Dwellers

Book Two—The Star Dwellers

Book Three—The Sun Dwellers

Book Four—The Earth Dwellers (Coming
September 5, 2013!)

The Country Saga (A Dwellers Saga sister
series):

Book One—Fire Country

Book Two—Ice Country

Book Three—Water and Storm Country

Book Four—The Earth Dwellers (Coming
September 5, 2013!)

The Witch Wars:

Book One—Brew (Coming December 12, 2013!)

The Evolution Trilogy:

Book One—Angel Evolution

Book Two—Demon Evolution

Book Three—Archangel Evolution

Children’s Books by David Estes

The Adventures of Nikki Powergloves:

Nikki Powergloves—A Hero Is Born

Nikki Powergloves and the Power Council

Nikki Powergloves and the Power Trappers

Nikki Powergloves and the Great Adventure

Nikki Powergloves vs. the Power Outlaws
(Coming soon!)

This book is dedicated to my Goodreads Street
Team.

Your selfless, energetic, and unwavering
support is a sign

of all that is good in this world.

I’m forever in your debt.

S
tanding on the deck
watching the sunrise, I can’t hold back my smile. The air is crisp,
a little colder than usual for this time of yar, numbing the tip of
my nose, filling each breath with the distinct smell of salt and
brine. While endless yellow clouds keep watch over the Deep Blue,
the half-sun splashes purples, pinks and oranges on the ever
reddening morning sky.

To the starboard side I can see the
shoreline, sandy at first, and then green, rolled out like a
welcome mat. Above the land, the yellow clouds darken to black.

In the waters surrounding the ship, I see the
familiar dark triangles of sharp-tooth fins breaking the surface,
patrolling the ocean, hoping for an execution or a natural death to
give them the chance to taste human flesh yet again.

But even the constant presence of the
sharp-tooths can’t wipe away my grin. Not today.

The ship lurches beneath me, riding the crest
of yet another big rolling wave. But I don’t stumble, don’t lose my
balance, don’t so much as sway from the ship’s movements or the
tumultuous wind that whips my shirt in a frenzy around me.

Steady.

Balanced.

A seaman, through and through.

And smiling, bigger than the ocean, relishing
the salt spray splashing my face as a wave crashes against the
hull, living for the feel of the power rolling and throbbing
beneath my feet, laughing when a flock of white-winged big-chins
dive-bomb the water, each emerging with a nice-sized fish clamped
tightly between its beak.

This is the life. The life of a Soaker. A
typical morning in water country.

My life, all about to change. Because I’m
fourteen now.

“Huck,” a deep voice rumbles from behind. Not
a murmur, not a greeting: a command.

Startled, I turn quickly, my smile vanishing
in an instant. “Father?” I say.

“Admiral Jones,” he says. Admiral Jones is
what his shipmen call him.

“Sir?” I say.

“Son,” he says, taking two steps forward to
reach my side. “Today you become a man.” His words are the truth
but I know he doesn’t mean them. Not after what happened. Not after
what always happens.

Today’s the start of my fourteenth yar, the
yar I cast off my childish ways and become a real seaman, not just
the son of one. “I’m ready,” I say, wondering if it’s true. I
desperately want to look down, to look away, to escape the piercing
stare of my father’s crystal blue eyes, which are startling next to
his white, freckled skin, but I don’t—

—because men don’t look away for anyone;

—men aren’t scared of anything;

—men don’t cry.

My father’s creed, one I’ve heard a million
and a half times.

And men don’t fail their fathers, like I have
so many times before.

Resting a hand on my shoulder, my
father—Admiral Jones—says, “Are you? Ready?”

Uh…I think? Maybe? “Aye,” I say, keeping my
gaze on his but feeling his disappointment tremble through me.

“Hmm,” Father says, chewing on his lip. “I
suppose we’ll find out, won’t we?”

I hold my breath because the way he’s looking
at me, so full of doubt, so uncertain, with one eyebrow raised, his
nostrils flared slightly, his expression lopsided, seems to pick me
apart from the outside in, like a big-chin tearing at the flesh of
a fish. If I breathe I’m afraid it will come out in a ragged
shudder, and then he’ll know.

He’ll know I’m not a man, even if I’m old
enough to be one.

My face warms while I hold my breath for ten
seconds, twenty, as he continues to stare at me, his eyes probing,
closing in on the truth.

Just when I start to feel a little
lightheaded, he looks away, turns, stomps off, his boots hammering
the wooden deck like a funeral drum. I let my breath out as slowly
as I can, closing my eyes. “I
am
a man,” I whisper under my
breath, trying to convince myself. “I won’t fail you. Not anymore.”
If only I had the guts to say it loud enough for him to hear.

“Walk with me, Son,” my father says without
turning around.

“Aye, aye, Father,” I say.

“Admiral Jones,” he replies. By blood he’s
still my father, but by rights he’s the admiral, and I’m one of his
men, subject to all the same rules as anyone else.

“Admiral Jones,” I correct, wondering why
saying it this time doesn’t feel nearly as good as it always did
when I practiced in my cabin.

I hustle to catch up, trying to stride the
way he does across the deck. Long steps, chin up, eyes sweeping the
ship, taking everything in. As we walk aft, two of my father’s
lieutenants are swashbuckling on the starboard side. Their swords
ring out loud and shrill and practiced as they parry and slash and
block. It’s a morning ritual for these two, Cain and Hobbs, one
I’ve watched with boyish interest many times before.

When we approach, they stop, planting their
blades point-first into the deck. Hands flat, they each raise the
tips of their fingers to the arch of their eyebrows in a rigid
salute. “At ease, lieutenants,” my father says.

They relax their arms but continue to stand
at attention. “Mornin’, Admiral…Huck,” Cain says, his blue uniform
turning dark with sweat stains beneath his armpits. He flashes a
smile.

“Mornin’, Cain,” I say, smiling back.

“
Lieutenant
Cain,” my father corrects
sharply. I look up at him and he’s giving me those dark eyes again,
sparkling blue under the morning sun but shrouded in shadow from
the brim of his admiral’s cap.

“Lieutenant Cain,” I mumble, feeling stupid.
How can I be a man if I can’t even talk right?

“Mornin’, Huck,” Hobbs says with a sneer.
Unlike Cain, he’s never liked me.

I frown at his half-smirk. “Mornin’,” I say
under my breath.

“
Lieutenant
,” my father says
again.

Stupid, stupid. “Lieutenant,” I say.

“So you’re a man today,” Cain says, slapping
me on the back with a firm hand. It hurts a little but I’ve never
felt better.

“I am,” I say, beaming.

“That remains to be seen,” my father says,
wiping the grin off my face before it’d even reached my eyes. How
do I prove myself to him after what happened two yars ago? My
mother’s face flashes through my mind: her quick smile, her green
eyes, her long blond hair. The way she’d read to me at night. Tales
of great battles against the Stormers, our independence won and
lost and won again. Many yars ago.

Her face again, not smiling this time:
awash with terror, twisted and stricken and looking up at me,
pleading—her eyes always pleading…

“Huck!” my father barks.

I snap out of the memory, shake my head.
Hobbs is snickering while Cain looks at me under a furrowed brow.
Father’s lips are unreadable beneath his thick salt-and-pepper
beard. “Wha—what?” I stammer.

“Lieutenant Hobbs asked you a question,” my
father says.

I glance at Hobbs, who looks smug, his hands
on his hips. “Aye?” I say. Catching myself, I add,
“Lieutenant.”

“Have you been practicing your sword work?”
Hobbs asks again.

Not the question I expected. For a moment I
let the warmth of pride fill my heart, because I have. Been
practicing, that is. Every spare moment I’ve been practicing with
the wooden blade my father gave me when I turned seven. Fighting
the other young boys on the ship, parrying with masts, battling
heavy bags of potatoes and rice. Swinging and swinging my practice
sword until it’s become a part of me, an extension of my arm and
hand.

I stick my chest out and say, “Aye.”

“Show us,” Hobbs says, a gleam in his dark
brown eyes.

I look at him sideways, wondering what he’s
up to, but, not wanting to disappoint my father yet again, I start
to pull my wooden sword from where it hangs loosely from my
belt.

“No,” Hobbs says. “Not with that. With this.”
He reaches down and picks up a sword, shorter than his, but shiny
and sharp and
real
. And the hilt…

—it has the Admiral’s markings on it, a
woman, beautiful and shapely, her hair long and falling in front of
her shoulders to cover her naked breasts. And beneath: the skin of
her stomach gives way to a long tail with scaly fins, like a fish.
A merwoman. Identical to the figurehead on the bow of the ship. The
ship’s namesake.
The Merman’s Daughter.

The sword is my birthright, the sword I will
wear until my father dies and I inherit his long-blade. With a
slight bow, Hobbs holds it in front of him reverently, offering it
to me. Through his long blond bangs, which hang over his eyes, I
see him wink at me as I take it.

Something’s up. Hobbs never winks.

In my grasp, the sword seems to gain weight
and I almost drop it, awkwardly bringing my offhand up to balance
it. I hear Hobbs snort, but I ignore him, because this is my time,
my day.

My right.

Slowly, I raise the sword to eye level,
watching in awe as it seems to catch every ray of red sunlight,
sending them shooting in all directions.

My right. My sword.

“Why don’t you give it a try?” Hobbs says,
and I sense something in his voice—a challenge.

“Hobbs,” Cain says sharply, sounding sterner
than I’ve ever heard him.

“Uhh, aye,” I say, looking between them,
wondering why Hobbs looks so mischievous and Cain so angry.

I move a safe distance away and raise my
sword to attack position, my feet planted firmly as I’ve been
taught. I start to swing, but stop when Hobbs laughs. “I mean
against a real opponent,” he says.

I look back, my prideful chest deflating.
“Sir?” I say. I can’t possibly fight him. He’s a man, and I’m…not,
regardless of my age and who my father is.

I can feel a crowd gathering, their boots
shuffling on the deck. I whirl around, taking them in, the eyes—so
many eyes—staring, waiting, watching. To see what I’ll do. A test.
This is exactly the kind of thing my father would do.

My chance. To prove myself. To him.

Maybe my last chance.

My mother’s face, open-mouthed and
screaming. Pleading and pleading.

I grit my teeth, shake my head, nod firmly at
Hobbs. Raise my sword with two hands in his direction.

He laughs, deep and loud. “Me? You thought
you were going to fight me? Don’t insult me, kid. You’ll fight
someone closer to your own size.” At the same time as I feel angry
heat swallow my neck—because he called me
kid
on the day I
become a man—I breathe out a silent sigh of relief. Perhaps I have
a chance after all.